


Where We Belong

by olippe



Series: We're Going [6]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Angst, Drama, Drama & Romance, Friendship/Love, He's also their uncle, I Love You, I'm sorry boys, Lorne Simon-Garfunkel, M/M, Male Friendship, Musicians, Romance, Soulmates, Their Love Is So, They're Supposed To Be Adults, Yes Lorne is their son now, but it's fine because we love them, but they just don't grow up, hello dorkness my old friend, here's lorne you love so much, i don't have interest in giving them happiness, i mean are we really still on this?, idk how to write carrie tho, lol i added carrie there, she so smol, so much is going on, they're idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 71,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24234358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: Here, at last.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: We're Going [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629406
Comments: 74
Kudos: 18





	1. How to Be Together

**Author's Note:**

> I finished a deadline faster than I thought, so I whipped this one up ;v;  
> But I might be much slower on the updates, I still have lots to do ;v;
> 
> Please do not take this story soooooo seriously; this is just a fiction and I don't intend to offend anyone or any group with this. Please do get your turkey costume on before you proceed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ┬┴┬┴┤ ͜ʖ ͡°) ├┬┴┬┴
> 
> This is a bit crude because I didn't really review it, but I kinda wanna put it out there before I forgot ;v;  
> I hope it's alright ;v; my friends, i need coffee ;v;
> 
> K now I need to whip up a threatening email to a certain professor ┬┴┬┴┤ ͜ʖ ͡°) ├┬┴┬┴

Art scratches the hair behind his ear. His hands are trembling so violently, it’s ridiculous. Is he scared, or is he confused? Neither, he realised; this is excitement. He smiles at the thought. The old team together again, taking in the songs once written and sung for him… This _is_ exciting. More than getting lost in Swiss mountains; far more. Art saunters away with a little spring in each step.

Beyond the door is a little crew, chattering lowly, each with their own task at hand. The theatre was big and supposedly beautiful, but entering from the other end of the building had led him to a completely different view. He walks slowly, taking in the first look of what’s gonna be his workspace for the next three weeks. First things should be closely observed—it should be perfect because he’ll have to remember it. The colour of the drapes and the ceilings, the temperature, the light, the passing conversation. Art needs to carve every single detail for future recollection.

Art spots Paul in the corner of the room, sitting on a grey block, playing guitar and humming gentle familiar tunes. Art smiles at that. He loves this song. He wonders if he can get Paul to include this in their setlist. Paul. That's really Paul over there, sitting, singing, so small and so perfect. Art was about to contain himself, but then he noticed that Paul is singing to another familiar face. He gasps, and Art can’t help but running and calling his name out loud.

“Roy!”

He giggles like a child and leaps and quickly swallows the unprepared Roy in his hug. The man groans, surprised, but is quick to return the embrace, happily pulling Art close and patting his shoulder repeatedly. Roy, Art thinks, smells like potatoes. It’s the thought that had been with him ever since they first met, and it’s never left him. Right now, the smell of potatoes fills him like a childhood memory and Art leans into it, tightening his embrace, muffling his high-pitched boyish giggles. Roy makes a low chortle at the burst of glee behind his shoulder. “God, it’s been too long. How are you? Oh, my, Art, your hair.” He laughs and ruffles Art’s hair fondly. “This had been growing wild!”

Art lets go and smiles happily. “It’s so good to see you again, Roy.”

“Yeah, and how about a little hello to the guy who actually found you while you’re trekking across Europe like a damn caveman?” Paul pokes Art sharply on the back. "Seriously, Artie, it's like you've never heard of trains and cars before." Paul takes off his guitar strap, grinning from ear to ear, outstretching his arms. He tilts his head. “What do we do? Awkward hug? Angry handshake? Or do we go straight to bickering like old divorced couples?”

“Bickering, definitely.” Art slips out of Roy and gives Paul a quick hug. He can hear Paul snickering rapidly, bouncing a little. Art tightens the hug, feeling so happy he could break.

Roy glowers. “Okay, you two, keep the bickering to the minimum. You know what it’s like hearing you both? It’s like being in family dinner and having to listen to your nephews fight about stupid things like whose mashed potato has more lumps. It’s mashed potato! Just eat it and beat it!” He shakes his head. “Really. You two are the reason why I only have _one_ kid.”

“Fine, no bickering.” Paul releases himself off the hug. He looks up and smiles at Art, giving him a little squeeze on the arm. “No, actually, I’m pretty psyched about this. Artie, why don’t you sit down and let’s sing something as a sort of… warm up? Come on! You pick the song. Hey!” Paul waves his hand excitedly, calling for attention. “Can you get something for him to sit down? This guy walked all the way from Switzerland to get here.”

“That’s not true,” Art whispers to the young man who wheels in another block for him to sit on. Roy nods approvingly and clasps his hands in anticipation. Art smiles and leans closer towards Paul, noticing how overjoyed he seems with his guitar and Art by his side. It’s really like the old times again. Paul and Art and guitar and Roy. Art slightly narrows his eyes and inhales softly, preparing himself for the first line…

“OH MY GOD IT’S SIMON AND GARFUNKEL!”

“No.”

“OH MY GOD THIS IS HAPPENING!”

“No.”

“ALL YEARS OF MY CAREER HAD BEEN ALL FOR THIS MOMENT!”

“Lorne, come on!” Paul puts down his guitar, opening his mouth to yell further, but Lorne interrupts him with a noisy squeal. Roy gets startled and he retreats slightly, fearing for his life. Paul gives a miserable smirk at Art and nods towards the bouncing Lorne. “So, you remember Lorne. He’s the executive producer for this whole operation.”

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!”

“OH MY GOD, LORNE, I’LL HAVE YOU FUCKING FIRED!”

Lorne drops his shoulders and pouts dejectedly like a deserted dog. “Aw, no. Come on, I’m just excited. You’re actually going to sing together again! As a couple! AND I’LL BE THERE TO IMMORTALISE THE WHOLE THING! THIS IS THE DREAM!”

Paul shudders. “Really? That’s the dream? You dream about the two of us? Ew. Roy, Lorne. Lorne, Roy.”

Lorne quickly takes Roy’s hand and gives him a respectful nod. “Of course. Roy Halee, the Holy Ghost. You, Sir, are my hero. That whole thing where you made them sing into one microphone? Inspired. Thank you for your hard work, Sir. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Roy says, hesitantly, shuffling closer to Paul for protection.

Art sniggers and pats the scared Roy on the shoulder. “What, Roy’s the Holy Ghost? So we’re like… what, a Holy Trinity?”

Lorne nods solemnly. “I see you’ve been reading your Bible, Rabbi Garf.”

“Okay. So who’s God and who’s Jesus?”

Lorne rubs his chin and thinks for a while. “You’re God… No, Paul writes so he’s God because he makes things… You’re Jesus. You walk around and we believe you because you look nice.”

Paul groans. “That’s just wrong. Let’s not bring God and Jesus into this.”

But Art nods slowly and regards Lorne once again, “So you’re saying, he’s the Father and I’m the Son. So in other words…”

“I SAID NO GOD AND JESUS!”

Art laughs loudly, doubling over himself, and Lorne giggles uncontrollably along with him. Paul's face reddened and his veins are popping; a typical look he has when he's about to bang his guitar against his head. Roy just frowns in complete confusion. “Oh my God, I miss you two,” Art mumbles between his fit, shaking his head and wiping the tears that's pooling on his eyes. Art eventually stands up to give Lorne a warm hug. “Seriously. It’s good to see you again, Lorne. Just… reduce the volume a little, okay? Roy’s new.”

“Yes. Yes! Sorry, Sir Roy Halee, Sir.” He grins at Roy, who nods a little, fearfully. Art returns to his seat, patting a little space next to him, gesturing for Lorne to sit down. “I’m just _very_ excited. This is _literally the greatest thing that’s ever happened in my entire life._ This, and my last marriage, I guess, but I have to say that… Anyway, you two were about to play—play! Can I make request? CAN I? Can we do the Kellogg's cornflakes, please? _Pam, pam, pam, pam..._ ”

Roy smiles politely at Lorne, who’s taking his seat with Art. “I take it you’re a fan, Mr. Michaels?”

Lorne nudges Art and screeches, “ _Ohmygodheknowsmyname_.”

Paul sighs in response to Roy’s concerned glance at him, and shakes his head. “He’s… well-meaning. And not infectious. Okay, moment’s over. No one’s singing. No, Lorne, you ruined the whole thing. Let’s get the talking done now, we don’t have much time anyway. Everyone’s already in? Let’s get them in the conference room. Artie, is it okay?” Art’s eyebrows jump, slightly surprised to be addressed. Paul shrugs. “I mean, you _just_ came _._ Do you wanna take it in first, or…”

“Oh.” He nods. “No, it’s fine. Let’s do the talking thing.”

Paul stands up and raps his fingers on the guitar to get people to follow his suit. Lorne, Roy and Art quickly do so, then they all, led by the still-hopping Lorne, make their way to the conference room. Lorne makes a loud announcement of the coming of Sir Roy Halee to everyone who’s unfortunate enough to walk past them, so Art tries to be as far away from him as possible.

Paul slows down until he falls in line with Art, then reaches out to put an arm around his waist. “It’s really good to see you,” he smiles and looks up. Art nods and strokes his shoulder. Happy. As if the last year never happened.

***

They all sit in large brown sofas that surround an industrial coffee table, no coffee on it. People thank each other for coming, present the project in brief, and introduce others in involvement. For Paul, it doesn’t seem to be that big a deal that it’s going to be televised—what’s gonna be so different about it? So they’re going to sing in front of people _and_ camera, what’s there to be concerned about? They’re barely gonna notice the camera. What he’s concerned about, and he doesn’t say it out loud, is whether people would actually come. Paul’s not in a good place right now.

For Art, nothing seems to happen—other than the fact that he’s sitting side by side with Paul again, their shoulders touching and Paul would casually rub him on the back, on the neck, or on the arm. Art wants to just bury his face in the crook of Paul’s neck and get everyone out of the room, but he does what he can. He pretends to listen, smiles to his thumbs, and, from time to time, pats Paul on the knee to return his little touches. When it gets unbearable, he’d squeeze on it and Paul would smile and scoff and stop. Then he’d start over.

Art finally joins the conversation to fight the idea that they are to play separate sets. Art was ready to ramble about how he returned to sing _with_ Paul, not _after_ Paul, but the aforementioned Paul stopped him before Art made the whole thing weird. Art was grateful for that—he’s really not the best at laying down points in palatable, communicative ways. “Listen,” Paul said, “you contacted me because of the idea of Simon & Garfunkel, and you’ve got Simon & Garfunkel, for fuck’s sake! I said it’s either I sing with Artie, or neither of us is singing at all, and that still stands.”

Art could’ve kissed him right then and there.

Lorne caught on and quickly clears his throat. “Okay, you know what? I don’t know why you insist on them doing separate shows anyway. I think it’s a great idea that they present their solo materials too, but _as a duo._ Come on! This is gonna be huge. Like Art's hair. This is actually gonna be their reunion—the first time they really perform together in _years._ The crowd is gonna be wild! Like Art's hair. This is gonna be a historic moment! Let them sing!”

“Okay, okay…” The rest of them shares an uncomfortable look. “We just thought… Because Mr. Simon mentioned something… But if it’s all good, we’re excited about this.”

Art nudges Paul. “What did you say?”

He grins. “That we might fight.”

“Oh.” Art frowns. “Always the pessimist, Paul. Say it with more surety, won’t you? We definitely _will_ fight.” He laughs, and nods. “But we’re gonna perform together.”

The said fight happens several minutes later when the concept of band is introduced. No, we should do it like the old times, Art insisted. Just Paul and Art and a guitar—but maybe two microphones this time, it’s getting ridiculous. He knows he’s being sappy about their reunion—wanting things to be authentic and all, it’s all very Art—but he doesn’t think it’s unreasonable to want to return to what they really were before—stripped out of accessories, just pure… them. Their voices, their words, their music—just the two of them in that stage, filling the silence with little melodies. Isn’t that what made them… _them,_ in the first place? People dance and get backing vocals and the whole crowd of musicians behind them, but Simon & Garfunkel is all there on the title: just that—two people, period.

But sentimental Art is a stubborn Art, so fight happens. Even after Paul points out his injury, Art’s still being very firm about it. “Okay, then, we get a back-up guitarist,” he’d said, to which Paul snapped a, “WHAT’S THE BIG DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HIRING _ONE_ GUY AND A WHOLE BAND?!” and Art reacted with, _“A WHOLE FUCKING HUNDRED PEOPLE BIG, THAT’S WHAT!”_

Roy quickly shuts down the meeting before the screaming gets louder. He makes a closing statement and convinces people that the rest of the planning will come through in the end, and everyone files out of the conference room with unease. Roy turns his heels with a scowling face directed at the two boys slouching on their seats, both miserable and angry. “Now they know that what people had been saying about the two of you is true. Come on, boys! You’re not kids anymore!”

Paul frowns. “Yet you’re still calling us boys.”

Roy shrugs. “’Fraid that’s not gonna change.” He picks up his dossier and waves it at them in warning. “You two better behave tomorrow. Now, go home. I’ll see you again soon.” He stops at the threshold. “You _don’t_ need me to oversee you until you’re home, right? No one’s gonna pull anyone’s hair, right? Paul, no pushing Artie to the ground.”

Art laughs. “Roy, we’re not 10.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mumbles, then sighs desperately. “Boys, just… find ways to be together, please. Okay? Good to see you both. Mr. Michaels.”

“Lornie.”

“Mr. Michaels.”

Roy waves his hand one last time and each of them gives him a small smile and a nod. Lorne lifts his eyebrows at Paul and Art, who are still steaming in their seats. “Boy, you two are _really_ horrible in workplace, huh? Starting to see why you two broke up. But, hey! Reunion! Let’s make it work! Please make it work, I’ll build a temple for the two of you.”

Paul sighs tiredly and nods. He leans back with a thud. “Yeah, Lorne. We’re gonna work it out. Artie, listen, I’m sorry I yelled. That wasn’t…”

“No, no. I’m sorry I was stubborn. I know you have injury.” Art shakes his head. They look at each other in silence for a brief moment, then smile. Art joins Paul at the back of the couch, chuckling weakly with eyes closed. “Find ways to be together, he said. If only it were that easy, Roy.”

Paul laughs. “Yeah, kinda wanna say that to his face, huh?”

Paul takes Art’s hand and they let their fingers got tangled in each other’s grip for a while. Their eyes are fixed at the ceiling, both processing the moment and how the complexity of this had rendered them mute. Art runs his thumb on the base of Paul’s finger when he found the cold metal against his skin, and he could feel Paul stirring beside him.

“Ring?” he murmurs.

Art nods. “Left hand.”

“Oh, good.”

Art smiles. He’s not very sure why Paul’s always very insecure about him not wearing the ring, but he quite likes it. And he likes wearing the ring. It’s the closest thing he has to carrying a board sign that says ‘PROPERTY OF PAUL SIMON’.

Paul straightens his back and clears his throat. “Okay,” he said, standing up, “I think it’s time to leave. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Art lifts his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Oh.” Paul hesitates. “Um… You wanna catch up? Coffee? I have time. Or…”

Art lets out a hearty laughter. “Call Carrie and excuse yourself,” he said. Art catches Paul’s hand and shakes his head. “Even if I have to drug you, you’re not going home tonight.”

Paul stammers and looks around the room for help. Lorne, at the end of the room with arms folded, catches the signal, but doesn’t make a reply because Art, too, had turned his head and is currently staring him down.

“Well, this is awkward.” He clears his throat. “On one hand, Paul’s my best friend and Carrie’s my neighbour… On the other hand, Art is Jesus.”

“Lorne, I said no.”

He grins. “Look at that. Art, take him, I’ll make excuse for Carrie.”

Paul narrows his eyes. “Lucifer.”

“But can I also come?”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“I’ll tell Carrie.”

Art narrows his eyes. “Judas.”


	2. How Your Voice Travels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul & Art (and Lorne) building the concert setlist.

Paul isn’t very concerned about leaving his car in the theatre. Someone could probably pick it up for him—or in any case, he could always ask Lorne to take care of it. After all, he’s the one who insisted that they take his car. _Everyone should be together,_ he said, as if they’re in a family vacation where no one was happy except for the mom. He’s the mom.

Art, who had come without car, has less thing to worry about. In fact, he suspects that he’s currently not worrying about anything. He listens to Paul yelling at Lorne and answers his questions from the backseat, but nothing seems to really bother him. Nothing does. Even with his earlier hesitation, Paul hasn’t let go of his hand since the moment they stepped inside Lorne’s car, so there really isn’t any reason to be bothered.

So everything will crumble as soon as they’re out of the door. But that’s pretty much all there is for them, so what else is new? Intense moments, followed by intense resentments... It’s just a pattern. And Paul knows patterns very well—he’d immortalised the agonising truth of it in a song he’d recorded twice; once in memory of Art, once with Art. In a way, perhaps, both were with Art.

It will never change, he said. It will never change until they die.

Art looks at Paul, who’s looking at him with searching eyes and mild confusion, and relaxes again. It will never change until they die. So that means they get to do this several tens more times, right? As long as they don’t die, for every violent falling-apart, they’ll have these moments: tender and heated at the same time, full of memories and riddled with future, abrupt but anticipated, lasting although brief. Art believes that he can hang on. He can hang on for these moments.

Art smiles. That’s what Paul had wanted, back then. And that’s what he finally realised he wanted, too. They still do.

They want to live.

***

The lift ride to Art’s floor is long, or it feels like it. Lorne still talks animatedly, mostly to himself, while both Paul and Art realised that the tension between them is a ticking time bomb and the moment the ride ends, it will explode. Paul noticed that Art’s knuckles are turning white in his grip, and so are his; but that’s the only way to hold themselves back as they storm down the hallway and towards Art’s apartment door, so Paul let them be.

Paul holds his breath. Art’s fingers are fumbling on his key, and when he tries to twist it, it’s trembling like an earthquake. Lorne’s still making comments behind Paul—right now, suggesting dinner menu and the greatness that is appletini. Then they hear a click, and share a look. Art turns the knob and pushes the door open, and as soon as his toes touch the first step of his living room, he starts kissing Paul.

“Whoa, hey,” Lorne yips and quickly shuts the door. Paul wiggles to get the guitar case off him, and when Lorne jumps to take it, he quickly drapes his arms around Art’s neck. Lorne screeches. “Sheesh. A little impatient, are we? I get it, I get it. It’s been so long, eh? You guys are breaking my heart. Alright, get it out of your system. Okay, I'm bored already. Hey, talk to me! Include me! Not in the petting session, but in conversation. Where were we? Ah, the ending! Okay, in three, look at me. Three, two... one. Great. A little more angle would've been better, but this is alright.

“So as I was saying,” Lorne looks around to place guitar wherever it seems safe, and he scoots over to lean it on the corner of the wall where Art puts his umbrella stand. “I think for the finale, since you two seem to agree not to do Bri…”

He jumps in surprise when Paul takes advantage of his absence to push Art to the door. Lorne stares at them, wide-eyed, and presses himself deeper to the corner, seeking refuge between the guitar and the umbrella. Lorne stutters, “Hey, guys? It’s very cute, but I’m getting a little scared now. How about we take a breath—seriously, you two, breathe, please—have something to drink, watch TV, or…” Art grunts loudly, cutting him off—or perhaps he just does that unconsciously. Art _does_ breathe—heavily—not the kind that Lorne tried to encourage with his earlier suggestion. Lorne clears his throat nervously. “Seriously, guys. This is like being 6 and accidentally walked in on your parents doing stuff you’re not supposed to know until you’re of legal age.”

The breathing gets more erratic and Art works to shrug off Paul’s jacket away. When it drops to the floor and Paul returns the gesture by moving to work on Art’s belt buckle, Lorne screams and frantically bangs his hands on the door. “NO! ART, LET ME OUT! HELP! HEEELP! HELP!”

For a second, Art pulls away and opens his eyes. Then he pushes Paul away from the door, giving Lorne enough space to crawl towards the handle and slip away—which he does, with a little whimpering of “oh thank God” before he disappears to the hallway. The two of them break away and look at the door as it slams shut.

“Huh.” Paul lifts his eyebrows. “Should’ve done that sooner.”

“Yeah, your friend doing stuff is _not_ a fun thing to watch.” Art giggles. Then he pauses briefly. “Well, except in _our_ case, if _you_ want me to watch you…”

“Artie, do not finish that sentence.”

They share a grin, and for the moment, they don’t know what to do and the idleness quickly turns awkward. Paul runs his fingers through his hair, sighs, and walks to the kitchen to find himself some water. His eyes take a quick sweep across Art’s apartment, noting the tasteful couch and dark curtains and the expensive coffee table. He hasn’t been here since that time with Shelley. Has it changed, somehow? Probably. Why hasn’t he spent more time in this apartment? It’s always his apartment that they went to. In retrospect, Art’s place would be a much better choice. No Lorne to barge in, no surprising exes or hiding things from upcoming son…

But then again, Art avoided his apartment for a reason.

“Did you realise that he actually got us to make a setlist for the concert?” Paul asked, tiptoeing to reach for the glass. Oh, that’s why not Art’s place. Everything’s set up to accommodate giraffes.

Art strides and steps in to reach it for him. “Did he?” He deliberately picks his favourite glass, trying to see if Paul would notice his little sacrifice. Art thinks of how Sandy would’ve laughed at him had he known. He’d say, “Art, people _wouldn’t know_ what you meant—it doesn’t work like that!” or something like that… Well, Sandy, you also said that about Art running away to Boston and expecting Paul to come, but he _did_ come, didn’t he? But, okay, Art shouldn’t expect this one.

And that’s good, because Paul really doesn’t catch his expectation this time. He fills the glass and takes a sip mindlessly. “Uh-huh. That’s what he did during the car ride. Didn’t you notice?”

Doubtfully, Art shakes his head. “Did I agree to anything?”

Paul frowns. “Artie, you agreed to _everything._ So far, at least. It’s just the first draft, we need to consult Roy too after this, I think. We, uh, we agreed on opening with Mrs. Robinson, did you at least remember that? Remember? Lorne said, ‘you should open with a fan-favourite, and since I’m a fan, I can totally say that my favourite is Mrs. Robinson’? I remember that because that’s not true, because his favourite is…”

“Punky’s Dilemma. God, he makes me hate that song.”

Paul laughs. “Yeah. Yeah, and that’s how I realised that he’s actually trying to get us to work, that’s why he’s tagging along. And we agreed on Mrs. Robinson because… what was it? Because it’s pretty perky to start the show, or something along that line? Anyway, Lorne’s suggestions were sensible. We have quite a list there, I think I remember most of it.”

Art opens the tap to get water for himself, then slowly nods. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, it’s coming back to me. I wasn’t really paying attention, but I vetoed The Dangling Conversation, didn’t I? And you… you vetoed Cecilia. I don’t know why you hate that song so much. Remember how you almost threw it out of the album?”

“I get it, Artie. You saved the song. You’re the hero. Yay.” Paul grins and puts down his glass. He jumps to sit on the kitchen counter. Art thinks he’s very much like a little monkey, but he doesn't dare saying it out loud. The little monkey would beat the little hell out of him. The little monkey says: “You know, Lorne can really get people to work if he wants to. I _was_ thinking about letting him stay for a bit and get the whole setlist done.”

Art pushes his drinking glass away. “That sounds reasonable. Hey, you know I wouldn’t really object; I did let him up, after all. What changed your mind?”

“ _Because_ , Artie,” Paul replies, laughing a little, “he suggested that we should end with Bridge, and you said you don’t want the concert to end with you singing alone on the stage.” Paul scoops Art’s face in his hands and gives him a peck on the lips. “You really don’t remember saying that? God, even when you’re being a mind-numbing idiot, you’re sweet.”

Art giggles and brushes his nose on Paul’s. “That’s what that old grandma said to me when I accidentally stole candies for her. Do you remember that? When I was recording that little collage in the old people’s house?” He retreats a little, frowning. “Now that I think about it, how could anyone _accidentally steal_ things?”

Paul groans his laughter and pulls Art for more little kisses. “You’re an idiot, you’re an idiot, you’re an idiot.” He buries Art in his chest, sighing to the top of his head. He could say that a million more times, and he will still mean well with it. Art is a mega idiot, and Paul loves him for it. It’s a default setting, loving Art. It’s like loving a little puppy, or ice cream, or Mona Lisa—it’s the most obvious thing to do, and he, like most people, would just succumb to the sensibility of it. He doesn’t need to think it over; he just needs to accept it, and do it. Like opening his eyes and just see. Automatic. God-given. Too natural that it can't be anything less than divine.

Art breathes slowly, settling himself into a rare Paul-scented comfort. He wonders, if he says ‘I love you’ one more time, would the repetition make it less meaningful? Maybe he shouldn’t say it anymore. Maybe it’s not even love anymore. It’s evolved into something more… domesticated? Even grander, but much less sensational. No longer fireworks, but a burning ember in fireplace. Warming. Tender. It still sizzles.

No, Art doesn’t love Paul—that’s not it anymore. Art _lives_ Paul. Every single feeling there is for a man to experience, he feels it for Paul. Future, present and past folded into one, all songs that had been written and haven’t been thought of, sung all at once. So probably separation doesn’t matter anymore. They own the distance—they exist even in what keeps them apart. Reality, dreams, possibilities… They exist in every single thing in the world; like atom, or even smaller than that. You don’t love that. It simply exists and there you are, constructed by it, existing with it— _because_ of it. Paul had become so big, he can no longer be felt like a human should. It’s scary, and it’s alright at the same time.

Art opens his eyes to the living room with its couch and its carpet and coffee table. It’s just life. Paul is life.

“Laurie died there.”

He could hear Paul’s heart makes one loud explosive beat before it starts hammering. His muscles make a reluctant move to turn around but they freeze before succeeding the mission. Art pulls away a little, stroking Paul gently, and looks up to his pale face to give him a small smile. Paul withdraws slightly, his hands hesitating on Art’s shoulders. “Why do you still keep this apartment?”

Art shrugs. “I can move anywhere I want, and she’s still dead.” He exhales heavily and returns his head into Paul. “In here, at least, she’s lived.”

Paul pets him and mumbles, “How are you doing?”

“Better,” he answers. “Penny’s been nice to me. She’s been very helpful with this whole thing.”

“Oh, yeah. Penny. I’d only heard good reviews about her, so, good for you, I guess. You know, Carrie gives me updates on both of you once every few weeks. She calls it ‘Penny for Your Thought’. Funny, that girl.” Then Paul frowns and grins broadly, then chuckles. “You know, I just remember something. Do you remember that time when I left to tell about us to Eddie, then Carrie came to my apartment and found you?” Art nods. Paul’s laughter gets into higher pitch. “You made her write something. You know what she wrote?”

Art shrugs. “I thought it’s supposed to be some sappy note about how much she loved you and wanted to get back together with you.”

“She wrote, ‘Is Garfunkel fucking Lorne in your apartment?’.”

“WHAT?”

Paul laughs loudly until his face turns red. “Yeah! Yeah, I got it framed and I put it on my nightstand. God, she’s insane. She said, _yeah, because they seemed so eager to get me out of the apartment and they looked so guilty._ She’s making sense, you know?” Paul wipes his tearful eyes, grinning at petrified Art. “Yeah, she probably keeps tabs on you and Penny because she’s concerned that you’re not actually interested in her best friend after all. She has wild imagination, Carrie.”

“Yeah, I like Carrie.” Art nods slowly. “You really lucked out with her. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Peggy’s nice and all, I just think that Carrie’s more your frequency. And your height.”

Paul smacks him on the head. “Watch your sass there, Garfunkel.”

Art laughs. “You know, Penny does the same with the two of you. It’s called ‘News I Carrie’. Seems like Lorne really did good job with keeping us in the loop through them.”

“God, the two of them share one head, don’t they?” Paul chuckles, then stops. “You don’t think they’re doing this thing we’re doing, do you?”

“Not _every_ friendship develops into irritating relationship, Paul.”

“Oh, of course, my irritating lover, Arthur. That’s your exclusive superpower.” He looks up at Art’s dangling blue-hooded kitchen lamp, absent-mindedly stroking Art’s hair. It’s probably sticking on his palm from the statics. “We’ve never really considered that possibility, have we?” Art looks at him with questioning eyes. Paul answers it, “Finding a partner who would… understand this situation with us.”

Art lifts an eyebrow. “A fake wife?”

“Or someone we genuinely love and genuinely loves us, but understands that there's this thing with you and I. That’s not impossible. Asking too much, yes. But not impossible.” He shrugs. “Don’t you think?”

Art frowns, staring at Paul with scrunched face. He doesn’t reply for quite sometimes, busy trying to figure out whether Paul’s being serious or if it's just a joke and he's gonna get laughed at, again. “Maybe,” he said, hesitantly, at length, after deciding on the former. “What, you think Carrie is gonna be okay with this?”

“I’m not saying Carrie…” He pauses. “Okay, maybe Carrie… But, I don’t know. I don’t know, maybe. Carrie’s very open-minded, very smart, and she’s exposed to a lot of, you know, different lifestyles. She _might_ be able to understand this, or at least… I don’t know. Tolerate it. I don’t know. Maybe. I believe in Carrie. Although, maybe not now. She’s too young, and this is too complex. I think,” Paul frowns, “if she finds out any time soon, she’s just gonna be angry about this.”

“I think she’s gonna be angry regardless of her age.”

Paul laughs. “Okay, she will… But, you know, when we were her age, we were insanely emotional, so… Oh God, I sound so old right now. You know what? Forget it. That was really selfish. Come on, asking your girlfriend to accept that you have a—you know, you? That’s messed up. Oh God, I don’t know how to sort this out. Oh God…”

“Paul, calm down.” Art squeezes his thighs, snickering a little. “I’m not asking you to sort things out _right now._ And, seriously, I know that this isn’t right, doing this behind their backs. And I know what telling them means…” He pauses. Paul tensed up again. Art clears his throat. “But… I think…” Art’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, then he breaks into laughter. “I have no idea how to finish that sentence. God, every time we talk about relationships, we’re always the bad guys. Maybe we should just stop seeing other people altogether, it’s fairer for everyone that way.”

Paul sighs and smiles softly. “I know,” he said. “But what’s fairer is for the two of us to just be together. I know it’s mean that we take casualties, but if we were given the same rights, it would never have happened.” Paul takes Art’s hands and clenches them in his grip. “The world is selfish and mean, Artie. It’s gonna grow on you. It has to.”

Art looks at Paul carefully. “You think it’s alright to be like that?”

“I don’t care, Artie. I’ll be a demon if I have to.” He shakes his head. “And maybe I already have. I live my life hurting people that I love, of course I have. And I really don’t care, Artie. It’s twisted that I have to do all that to be with you just for a moment, but I don’t care. It's too painful to care.”

Art looks down, then he looks at the living room again—at that carpet, that floor, that window who’d seen it all, that night that Laurie went away. It’s the most horrible thing he’d ever done and felt, but—

—he agrees.

Art shudders and hides from the sight of it all. He wants to disappear. With Paul. Into Paul. Just anywhere, anyhow.

“Artie,” Paul calls him. He wraps his arms around Art’s neck, coaxing him until he looks up. Paul smiles and plants a kiss on Art’s lips. “Let’s not. Let’s not talk about that. We have a lot of things to do, a lot of things we’ve missed… let’s hurt ourselves another day. Okay?”

Art nods slightly.

“Work, then.” Paul claps Art’s shoulder. “Setlist! Come on. We can make a call to Roy as soon as we’re done with it. He’s _really_ upset back then, I think we should make it up for him. Okay, so far, we’ve had the obvious… You know, Scarborough Fair, Bridge, The Boxer, The Sound of Silence, Mrs. Robinson… I’m thinking about another piece for you… I don’t know, For Emily? April Come She Will?”

“Oh, I like both.”

“Yeah. Let’s take that to Roy. We haven’t talked about which songs from our solo albums, though. You wanna start on that?” Art shrugs. Paul makes a deep frown and stays quiet for a while, before offering, “You know, I think we should do America for the concert. I kinda like that song. Besides, it seems fitting... don't you think? We're doing this to safe an American landmark, and all...”

Art pouts petulantly. “We’re doing a Kathy song? Sure… It’s time I stop being upset about that anyway…”

Paul lifts his eyebrows and laughs. “Okay, I didn’t know you’re upset about that… But why is it a Kathy song?”

Art looks at Paul as if he'd gone insane. “Because… you mentioned her name in that song. Twice. Listen, I know you sometimes forget your own lyrics…”

“Artie? Sshh. No.” Paul giggles, his legs are flailing wildly like a child’s in excitement. He pats both his hands on Art’s cheeks, forcing him to witness being laughed at with nowhere to go. “Oh, you are an adorable idiot. No! That’s a very _you_ song.”

Art frowns. “How?”

Paul tilts his head, smiling with his eyebrows knitted, looking at Art dubiously, probably trying to figure out whether Art's genuinely unsure or if he's genuinely an idiot. “You know that the song was about my trip with Kathy when we were finalising Wednesday Morning album?” Art nods. Paul grips Art’s hands, kneading them on the sides. Art’s hands are soft, as if they’ve never touched anything in their lives. Art was supposed to be born as a princeling; that’s a fact that failed to happen. Paul clasps them on his lap, exhaling softly. “When I was in the bus with Kathy, I thought about you. Probably because I was supposed to see you for the album, or because we’d just started hanging out again, I don’t know, I just did. It never happened before that, but then it did and…” Paul shrugs. “It felt weird. For the first time, I was with Kathy and I felt…” He blinks, then pushes his forehead until it touches Art’s, his eyes closed. Paul breathes in, slowly. His next few words are going to be a confession; they're heavy and reluctant to find freedom, because they're the truth. “I felt like I wasn’t supposed to be there. I felt empty, and everything felt wrong. It felt so strange to be with her. For the first time, being with her felt painful.”

“Paul…”

Paul jumps up again, looking happier this time. “I kissed you for the first time that summer, do you remember that?”

“No…”

Paul laughs. “You’re such an ass.” He kisses Art on the cheek, then brushes the trail of his kiss with his thumb. “I’m sorry it took me a while to realise that I love you.”

Art shrugs, smiles, then snuggles into Paul’s embrace. “I’m sorry I realised it way too fast.” He closes his eyes when Paul caresses his hair. “I think we should start doing that.”

Paul lifts an eyebrow. “Loving each other?”

“Well, if you haven’t, might as well start now.” Art sniggers, then shakes his head. “No, I mean _telling_ each other things. Explaining our actions, and stop expecting that we can always just… understand things without context. Aren’t you tired of misunderstanding things that were done from good intentions? I am. If you’re doing nice things for me, I want to know.”

Paul cocks his head sideways. “That’s sensible. Yeah. Yeah, we’ve been treating each other like mind-readers, haven’t we?”

Art smiles and nods in agreement. “We’re idiots.”

“You’re idioter.”

“Wow, said the great songwriter. Okay. How you wound up with The Sound of Silence, I’ll never figure out.”

Before a cheeky giggle escapes him, Art kisses Paul. It runs long enough for Paul to start shuffling in his seat, husky hints of low moans escaping him sneakily. Art runs his hand across Paul's back, then quickly breaks away. No, they still have more things to talk about. He presses one more peck on Paul's lips, then sighs blissfully. He looks at their hands that are still hanging on to one another, desperate but content. Art lifts it and brushes his lips over Paul’s knuckles. “I thought about telling you what’s happened since the last summer, and hear about what you’ve been up to… But can we do this instead? Can we talk about who we were when we were kids, what you meant to say then, and everything we never dared to say until now? About your songs and what you meant with it?”

“Sure.” Paul kisses Art on the temple. “But might have to start from Parsley, though. The ones before that were made in the Dark Ages. Let’s start with Homeward Bound. So you know that my home is in New York, right? And you believed that I was writing about Kathy? After we're done with this, we need to talk about your profound idiocy, my boneheaded friend.”

So Art helps Paul off the kitchen counter and leads him further into the apartment. Paul had never been in Art’s bedroom before, and Art had never found Paul in it, too, but it soon becomes the most natural scene there is; just Paul, standing in the middle of it all, draped in greyish shade of Art's elegant monochromatic bedroom, giving air as if he's the owner of the world and Art's renting this little corner from him with what little tribute he could surrender. Art quietly leads him onto bed while Paul relaying the list of questions why that he thought of when scribbling the lyrics of Cloudy. Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine was mostly anxious, but the construction of the title has some very nasty background behind it. Paul watches Art undressing himself while talking about how Poem on the Underground Station was really him recounting Art’s story on how he caught the last train to see Paul one night in an intoxicating autumnal month. What was the poem? It wasn’t a word, it wasn’t what was written on that wall they once saw together in 5th Avenue Station, it wasn’t the cheesy thing they claimed they fell in with each other. It was his name. It was his name when Art sculpted it into a thing of beauty by saying it out loud with that voice.

Art recites the poem in repeat until the morning breaks.


	3. How to Turn Back in Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minutes before the concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to upload two chapters, but I realised that what I really wanted was to snuggle in my sofa with the gorgeous milk chocolate gelato I just bought. And cry HAHAHA no.
> 
> I'll try to whip it up in a couple of days, my works are slowing down now 'v'

Lorne sticks his head through the door—again. He’d been prancing back and forth—supposed for good reasons, considering he’s the big gun in the production. And while Paul, Art, and Roy are relieved when he’s away and normal, his surprise visits startle them and it’s much worse than simply having him around, drumming his knees and making last-minutes pleas on the inclusion of his favourite songs.

This time, Roy had stealthily run to do one last round on whatever he’s doing when he sensed that the bringer of loudness was coming. He narrowly avoided Lorne, but he managed to squeeze through before Lorne’s fancy shoes hit the corridor. Paul and Art aren’t as lucky.

Lorne grins and pumps himself up. “Oh, come on, don’t look so grim! Okay, I know this had been three weeks of hell for both of you, but this is a big one! We’re expecting a big turn-up! Come on! Soak up the old-time glory and renew it tonight! And hey,” he points at them in rare irritation, “ _you_ brought the hell to yourselves. No one told you to bicker like that once every three minutes.”

Paul narrows his eyes. “You house a couple after a bitter divorce, you expect them to get cosy?”

Lorne rolls his eyes and waves his arms in rotating motion. “O-kay, I didn’t know that the breakup was… breakup. I thought it was all just a ruse! Or, I don’t know. Better reasons. Come on, you two love each other! Anyway, you guys _suck_ at working together. How you actually did it since you’re a tween, I’ll never know. But that’s all done now. We have the night! Come on, get stoked! So, Paul, remember what I said?”

Paul sighs. “Do not touch Artie’s neck.”

Lorne nods. “And, Art, what did I say?”

Art looks down and pouts. “No dancing.”

“And if you can’t help it…?”

“Turn it into an awkward clap…”

“Attaboy. Columbia educated you well.” Lorne lifts his arm and glances at his watch. “Okay, I have one more thing to check… Meet you two in 15?”

They share a look, then nod unenthusiastically. Lorne rubs his hands together, excited enough for the two of them. He grins and bounces slightly at the door.

“Boys,” he said, “we’re going to make history.”

***

They’d been screaming at each other through the whole three weeks, and rarely for good reason. People had padded every wall and hard surfaces because if Roy banged his head one more time, he might have serious brain damage. Lorne was the saving grace. He’s the only person who still had enough patience to talk them down long enough until the rehearsals were done, then they’d escort them away before real knife got involved.

What he didn’t say was, this whole feud made him really sad. Not only because sometimes he’d find the laundry door locked or Paul behind it, sitting in the dark with an empty glass and scrunched-up face, sometimes seething, sometimes sobbing, but also because he thought of the possibility of the permanence of these feuds. When he finally broke down and rambled to Paul about these worries, Paul looked at him with a deep frown and a faint smile, and said, “Lorne, you’re _not_ our kid.”

“Listen, it’s not that bad,” Paul had said. From Lorne’s point of view, it’s _really_ bad. “Artie is an autonomous person, I don’t like to get told what to do, we have contrasting artistic approaches. That’s all. The whole working together had always been hard, especially for Artie, because he had to surrender the power to a certain degree when I got to dictate what to sing. And it’s even harder now, because we’ve been working as our own directors for so long. We get defensive because this whole competitive thing we’ve had since we were kids. Right now, we just want to get the other to see that our way is the right way, to prove that it’s _their_ fault that things didn’t work. Just stupid, egotistical thing we still pull at each other. It’s not personal.” Then, he paused and scowled. “Well, it’s always personal with Art. But it’s not a big problem. We have our issues. It’s not news.”

Lorne pulled his face. “That sounds like a problem to me.”

Paul laughed. “Yeah, it’s a problem. But I still love Art, no matter how much he drives me mad.”

Lorne smiled at that, a little comforted. Even he, himself, wasn’t sure of why this had bothered him so much. Perhaps he does love Paul, in a certain way—definitely not in way that Garfunkel does; it’s far less layered—but anyhow, enough to genuinely want him to be happy. And, of course, he _is_ a fan. Perhaps he’s just reluctant to admit that their perfect union ended for good reason, thus admitting that they’re better off without the other, for their own peace of mind. So perhaps what he felt was indeed like a child realising the marriage of his parents crumbling and knowing that it’s better for them to part, but clinging still to the idea of a perfect family because it’s a lovelier image to have. It’s silly.

Lorne pushed the childish fear aside and leaned against the washing machine with a grin. “So, did he call you Baby Driver? Did he wear pigtails and come to your room and play?”

“If you put the image of Artie in pigtails in my head _one more time…_ ”

And that was less than a couple of weeks ago, although right now it feels like it’s coming from distant past. Paul stares at the recently closed door and finds new reason to be impressed by himself. He really worked that night well, hiding his own worries from Lorne like that. Probably he knew that his words were truthful, but to not admit that he’s upset by all the bickering—that’s big. He doesn’t like fighting with Artie. Of course he doesn’t. It’s Artie. They should be talking, chatting, laughing, joking, kissing, singing, fucking—whatever, just not being hostile with one another.

Paul clears his throat and slaps his hand over Art’s fist. “I don’t like making up with you,” he said, softly squeezing the tensed curled-up fingers. “Because I don’t like fighting with you in the first place.”

Art smiles. “I’m afraid that’s more out of habit than real anger, nowadays. But you know what I think is nice? That we have ‘nowadays’, nowadays.”

“That’s sweet,” Paul hums. “Sweetheart. That’s a good one for you.”

Art lifts his eyebrow. “Really? We’re about to make our first appearance as a duo since 1970, and you’re trying on petnames for me?”

Paul shrugs. “I like that one.” He sidles up to Art and leans his head on Art’s shoulder. He’s so pointy, sometimes it hurts to do that, but it just makes Paul laughs. Paul tilts his head until his face meets Art’s gaze and smiles. “Kiss me.”

Art scoffs. “You can move yourself and kiss me.”

Paul huffs and pouts. “That’s not nice,” he mumbles. Art stares at him as he moves away, noting that Paul decided not to kiss him after all. No, he returns to the back of the couch and sighs, somewhat despondently. “Are you mad at me? Because of all the things I’d said during the rehearsals, or whatever I’d done… or stuff before that?”

Art breaks into a smile, although it breaks his heart a little to see Paul like that—so crestfallen, so regretful. Paul doesn’t regret—he doesn’t show it, at least; him and his stupid pride. It’s nothing pleasurable to see him that way, but Art finds satisfaction in knowing that Paul had let him through his walls. He takes Paul’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, and kisses him firmly on the lips. Paul lets a little mewling sound escape him, and Art quickly catches it into his mouth before it runs far.

Paul blinks lazily when Art pulls away, as if he’s just waking up from deep slumber. Art caresses his cheek and mumbles, “I’m not mad at you.” Then, he laughs. “Okay, I’m mad at you.” Art closes his eyes and sweetly nuzzles his nose against Paul’s, smiling. “I’m always mad at you.”

Paul snorts his laughter. “That’s a very Art Garfunkel way to say ‘I love you’.” Art grins widely and chuckles in agreement. God, he’s so gorgeous when he does that. Paul loves how the skin at the corner of his eyes wrinkled into happy folds, and how the sound of his restrained laughter is so exquisite, it could bring him to tears. Paul runs his fingers through Art’s hair. Somehow his hands know how to avoid getting caught in the tangles; they’d learned enough, they’d recognised him enough, like a child and the secret alleys of his little town.

Paul pulls him roughly with both hands, hungrily kissing Art like he’d never been fed before. Breath stops itself in Art’s lungs, refusing to supply his body with what it needs, leaving him dizzy and perplexed and even stupider than he already was before. He feels Paul’s left hand moves away from the forest of his hair to slide down his face, thumb teasingly brushing on his throat, feeling the vibration and the texture of his moans. Art purrs weakly when Paul breaks the kiss, quivering a little from the impact.

A tongue laps over his lower lip, and he opens his eyes to see Paul smiling at him.

“Fuck me.”

Art blinks. A stunned smile slowly spreads across his face. “Paul, we have less than 10 minutes.”

“So?” Paul tilts his head mindlessly, his eyebrows jumping with mischief. “We can do it like, I don’t know, twice?” He casually pets Art on the groin, startling the latter. “In this case, maybe thrice.”

Art giggles and wriggles away from the touch. “Come on, don’t screw around. We can’t be late.”

He scoffs. “Says who?”

“I can name a _lot_ of people who’d kill you if we show up late. It’s _our_ show.”

“ _Exactly._ They can’t do it without us, so they have to wait for us.” Paul sounds smug, like his usual self. Sometimes it's delightful, sometimes it inspires the desire to slap him on the face.

Art frowns and his grin gets wider, and a little more nervous. “We’re not 20-year-olds anymore, Paul.”

Paul lifts an eyebrow. “Sure feels like it.”

And Art couldn’t blame him from saying that. The last few weeks _had_ been like a peculiar turn-back-in-time, with them singing and laughing and fighting in the studio with the overseeing Roy, and them sneaking around for little pecks or pets, and them returning to either Paul or Art’s for an all-night “harmonising” any time it’s possible. The way they interact was like them years ago again, when both emotions and libido were high. He even got Paul to actually smoke joints again after 11 years of abstinence.

This is just Paul’s pre-show jitters, much developed after weeks of indulgence. Art would give his legs to let him indulge, but he knows that doing it _this close_ to the show would be the end of them—just as he knows that his fortitude is just a fairy whisper away from crumbling. Paul leans forward and playfully nibbles on Art’s earlobe, sending shivers down his spine. “Come on. You can put it in me.”

Art mutters a “holy fuck” under his breath, but he doesn't need to worry about what might become of him because both of them have to jump apart when the door suddenly swings open. Paul grunts frustratedly when Lorne’s head returns to the doorway, swivelling with eyes in confusion as to why the two of them did not expect people to pop up soon. Then he registers it, and sighs with a shaking head. “No. No necking the gazelle. We— _you—_ don’t want funny publications because the good old Garf gets bitey-bites all over the collar, okay? Listen to your Uncle Lornie. Put them back in your pants and get out before Roy throws potatoes at you.”

Paul throws his head back and groans, but he removes his hand from Art, to the latter’s relief. Lorne walks away and lets the door wide open—in obvious attempt to keep them from pawing at each other again—while mumbling protests on how “they should’ve stuck with those stupid turtlenecks.”

“Huh.” Art, now much calmed-down, straightens his back. “I just realised. Are you wearing clothes you bought in Boston? You know, when we visited Sandy last year?” Paul turns his face and lifts an eyebrow. “I thought I recognised the pink shirt. I don’t know why you insist on this colour code. I hate pink.”

“Yeah? But it looks good on you. When’s the last time you wear pink?”

“Actually,” Art frowns, then slowly returns his gaze to the smiling Paul, “your wedding.”

Paul chuckles, looking down. He takes Art’s hand and slips the ring off his finger, then keeps it in his suit pocket. “Don’t want people to ask questions, do we?” Paul takes off his own and moves to slide it into Art's back pocket, nastily coping a feel as he goes, then pecks Art quickly on the cheek upon retreating. He rapidly stands up with a little jump, patting Art on the knee before he left the couch, energetic like a 12-year-old. “Let’s give them what they want, schmuck.”

Paul turns on his heels, then stops and swirls to look at Art again, smiling with a teasing cock of the eyebrow. “Then you give _me_ what I want.”

Art silently clears his throat and reclines a little. “After the show?” he asks timidly.

Paul nods. “After the show.”

He helps Art to his feet, squeezing on the hand a little longer than needed, then they start towards the door, striding with conviction and just little nerves rambling in their stomach—much less delicate than butterflies—what, moths? Paul takes a deep breath as he approaches the black car. He closes his eyes briefly before sliding in, letting himself be whisked to the pool of people that's awaiting him in the middle of the breaking-down park. He pats himself on the chest, feeling the ring that's hidden beyond his crisp suit. His heart is beating fast.

He is, after all, about to be pronounced Simon & Garfunkel.


	4. How the Light Hits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Concert in Central Park (part 1).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, yeah, there's gonna be two parts because i don't know how to wrap it in one. BUT THE NEXT PART ISN'T GONNA BE AS LONG.

Paul blinks at the crowd.

He knows that a concert in the park will draw a huge crowd—even more so since it’s free—but _this many people?_ No, he’s not afraid to get trampled, but it’s much too big to hold a proper conversation. Paul never likes performing in the first place, but at least back then, when he got intimate setting for their concerts, sharing little anecdotes or jokes kinda made sense—people _would_ still hear and react, and he could hear them in return—almost like a conversation. With this sort of crowd, they’re just going to scream at him.

So he’s not going to say much. He should probably just get on with the set list and be done with it. Artie wouldn’t add a lot either—he’s not in the condition to address the crowd; not since Laurie, actually. He’s still taking baby steps back to the stage, and Paul’s really gonna make it as accommodating for him as possible. So, okay, no talking too much, just singing. No touching Artie’s neck, definitely. Maybe just the shoulder.

He wants to touch Art, though. Paul succumbs to the impulse, dampening it as much as he can and settling with a little caress on the cheek. Art smiles but doesn’t lean to the touch, knowing that they’re only minutes to performance. In the dressing room, they’re both waiting for all the equipment to be set, for all the band members to be ready, and for the mayor to call them. Everyone’s busy except for the two of them, and it makes Art more on edge than if he’s the one who has to push big things around and get yelled at.

Roy makes an appearance, looking red and sweaty, waving his clipboard around for no reason. “You guys good? Gonna have to climb the stairs a bit, we’ll give signal when it’s time to do the climb, okay?”

Both Paul and Art nod. Roy lingers around for several more seconds to assess whether they were about to explode at each other again. Art’s definitely all tensed-up, although that’s pretty much his usual look. Paul seems like he’s somewhere else—also his usual look. Probably they’re fine. He clears his throat. “I’ll leave you two alone and get your assistants to get you ready when it’s T-10, okay? You sure you don’t want to go to separate rooms?”

Paul laughs. “Roy, this is D-day. I’m not gonna kill Artie.” He pats Art on the knee. “I love Artie.”

“Okay, good.” Art grins at Roy’s dismissal at that confession—so oblivious, so innocent. Roy cranes his head to see the progress in the backstage, and scowls. He quickly says, “I have to go. I’ll make sure you won’t be bothered. Good luck out there, boys!”

“Roy,” Art calls before Roy sprints away. He smiles gratefully at the man. “Thank you.”

For a moment, Roy stops and he seems like he’s about to break down and cry. Paul looks at the way his face contorts and blushes before nodding and quickly taking his leave, and he thinks of his own mother on the day of his wedding. His mother’s not here now, and she doesn’t even know what’s going on in his mind when he first came up with the idea of doing this. _Go and sing together like you did before_. At least the mother of the bride knows. Well, here’s to you, Mrs. Garfunkel.

Art looks like a giddy child, grinning widely with his knees bouncing on his restless legs. His cheeks are blushing a little, and there isn’t a single thing more beautiful than he. Paul shifts from his seat.

“Paul?” Paul slides to the floor and kneels in front of Art. “Whoa, no.” Art chokes on his words when Paul slithers his fingers to undo Art’s belt buckle. Art pushes his hands away, but he only stupidly helps Paul with his zipper. He tries again, “Paul.”

But Art is a ball of nerves and Paul is licking the place where it all ends. Art chews his lip to hold himself from screaming, and his head bumps on something hard when he throws it back. “Fuck,” he whispers. “Paul, seriously, no.”

But even as he said that, Art’s hands had ceased their fights and found Paul’s hair, stroking it in encouragement. Paul does it so good. Paul doesn’t do it with other people, so where did he learn all this? Oh _—him_. He does what he likes to Paul, and Paul does it to him. Art opens his mouth, but decided that it’s weird to thank someone for fellating him the way he likes it, and a tiny moan takes its place instead. Art shoots a glance in panic towards the door.

Paul’s hand reaches up to take Art’s cheek, drawing it towards him. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.” He swirls his tongue around and Art whimpers in defeat. Paul chuckles softly. “Won’t take a minute.”

Art sighs a staggered breath and looks down as per instructed. He can feel his toes curling inside his shoes. His mind is still stuffed with the images of people walking in on them, and the thought pushes Art more and more towards the edge.

So Paul was probably right. It probably won’t take a minute.

***

It didn’t.

Paul wipes his face with the back of his hand, sitting on the table and enjoying the view on the couch. Art looks like he’s dead. Dead, but happy—so that’s pretty much better than the rest of the day when he’s alive and sad. He’s not dead, though, so that’s even better. Paul thinks, if he listens carefully enough, he might be able to hear the sound of Art’s heart beating loudly in his chest. He grins and moves in to tuck Art’s junk inside his underpants, and helps him zip up his jeans.

Art glares at Paul. “I said _after_ the show,” he complained. Paul chuckles as he pulls Art’s belt through the buckle, places the prong through the hole, and settles the tail in the loop. Art’s still not happy about the whole thing. “I can’t feel my legs! We’re about to perform, and I can’t feel my legs!”

“Big compliment.” Paul grins again when Art shoots dagger at him. He pats Art on the cheeks. “Hey, you’re gonna do fine. It’s gonna pass. Just think of unexciting things. Eddie’s trail mix. Accidentally using your brother’s toothbrush. Hebrew school.”

“Oh, great. My erection’s gone. _Forever_.”

Paul laughs, and this time, Art joins in. They’re still giggling when the knock on the door tries to startle them, but they simply look towards the swinging door and nod at their assistants, who peer in to let them know that it’s time to get ready. They both nod, stand up, and walk hastily through the backstage scene, approaching the side door where they should emerge from.

“The mayor’s gonna announce you,” the stage manager said, nervously tapping on her clipboard, “and I’m gonna give you a signal when he’s called you. You’ll walk up the stairs, open the door, and walk to the stage and close it.”

“How complex,” Paul comments.

“Don’t torment her, she’s gonna cry.” Lorne suddenly pops up from behind the poor girl, grinning. He gives a little gesture that makes the stage manager reluctantly moves away to give him some time with the duo. As soon as she’s out of the way, he clasps his hands on each of their shoulder, giving it a little squeeze, and nods at the two of them. “Good luck out there. I’ll be here, overseeing things to make sure that you two have a perfect reunion, alright?”

Paul strides to take Lorne in a big hug and, after a moment, Art follows the suit. Lorne blinks in surprise for a second before he breaks into a happy smile and slowly wraps his arms around them. Paul mumbles something to his chest and Lorne lifts his eyebrows in question. Art answers in secretive whisper, “He said ‘thank you’.” He smiles warmly. “And, from me, too. Thank you. For everything. If there’s anything we can do for you…”

Lorne beams at the offer. “Private show where you play the Kellogg’s cornflakes in loop for two straight hours?”

“10 minutes,” Paul grumbles.

“One hour.”

“Thirty minutes, and you stop calling it ‘Kellogg’s cornflakes’.”

“Sold.” He pushes them a little to look at both with a kind smile. “That, and you two, really trying to make this work.”

They look at each other briefly, and nod. “We will,” Paul answers firmly. Art looks at Paul, then at Lorne, and nods again in promise.

Lorne smiles again and gives them one last squeeze, then he claps his hands and shouts, “SOMEBODY GET THE SHORTY HIS GUITAR!”

Paul kicks Lorne before the stage manager ushers them towards the stairs. She listens intently to whoever’s whispering words to her ear through the earphone, and after a few seconds, she nods and gives the two of them a little push on the back. Art starts to climb the short stairs and, right after they left the backstage people’s field of vision, Paul pulls on his arm and gives a cheeky smile.

“I expect to get mine when this is done.”

Oh, great. Art’s erection is back. Hebrew school, Hebrew school, Hebrew school.

***

“Ladies and gentlemen, Simon and Garfunkel!”

Yeah, that’s right. They’re that, and they’re together, and this whole park is here to watch them sing their secret love life like a bunch of clueless idiots. The thought puts Paul into such a good mood, he might even act nice for the rest of the year.

He gives Art a little push, and the latter opens the door, looks back at him, and walks out to the stage with a-little-too-hurried strides. It’s such a fun thing, getting Art all flustered; and so easy, too. Paul follows, his guitar bounces a little on his thigh, and, once he hits the outside, he waves his hand at the screaming crowd. Art—Art raises both hands and yelps, like a little idiot. Such an idiot.

And then he just walks there towards his microphone, twisting around, as if it’s his first time being picked first in sports and now he’s over-enthusiastic about the whole thing and becomes a complete idiot about it. He’s such an idiot. Paul brushes his back and offers his hand, whispered “shake it, idiot,” and Art does so before his head processed the order and the insult. Paul turns to the crowd and starts strumming on his guitar.

Oh, no. He’s dancing a little. No, Artie, clap, _clap—_ you look like an idiot. He claps. He’s still making funny fidgety dance moves with his legs. And he’s looking up. He’s probably gonna come in late, because he’s an idiot. He’s so idiotic and adorable, how did he survive this world looking like that? Paul eventually yells a little cue, and—thank God—Art blinks and reacts and sings at the right time.

_“We’d like to know a little bit about you for our files.”_

Art’s head is separated from his body now, and he listens to himself singing. It’s weird, but it’s like the first time he actually heard the song they’d sung a million times in their youth. It never occurred to him before, but _they’re_ Mrs. Robinson. People are looking at them, trying to find out things about them. It was written… when? Mid-60’s, when they’re just starting? Oh, Paul always thinks about everything, does he? How this guy might react to this, how that guy would react to that… He considers everything and winds up worrying too much but ends up not taking any of it into his account. No, he was concerned about prying people, but he still fucked Art in the end, didn’t he?

Art turns his face away from Paul. Probably it’s best if he doesn’t look at Paul throughout the concert. When did Paul learn how to perform like that anyway? Sure, he’s always much less fidgety than Art, but he’s got much more ease now. Is it because he doesn’t play on stage with Art’s contagious nervousness anymore? Or is he feeling much more comfortable _because_ he’s with Art right now, here, on this stage? Whatever; he looks so sexy, Art is losing his mind. When did the song end again? How did this one start? Art needs to stop thinking about Paul—he’s in the middle of a concert, for crying out loud. But it’s not Art’s fault. What was Paul thinking anyway, doing that to him _minutes_ before the concert began? How was he supposed to behave after he did—and said—all that? Paul’s never been like that before—not pre-concert, that is. He’s being insane, and he’s taking Art with him.

Ah, shit. He looked at Paul. This isn’t gonna go well.

Paul used to say the funniest stuff during the concert. Does he remember the sandwich thing? That was funny. Paul used to laugh as if someone tickled his feet with one of those fishy feathers. Art used to spend time thinking about that laughter before he went to bed. No, no, no—Paul looked at him. Great, he won’t stop looking at Paul now. He should do something. Anything. Grab the microphone or da—no, he already swore he won’t dance. Microphone it is.

“ _Kathy, I’m lost, I said, though I knew she was sleeping._ ”

That’s him. The next one’s his part. Paul _told_ him that he wrote that with Art in his mind. Paul’s thinking about him, even when they’re not yet lovers—is that real? Was this song meant as a little confession that Art never really caught on—is that real? Is he really that stupid as to not see through all these cryptic lyrics? As if hearing his thoughts, Paul looks at him and nods.

They launch to the next part in unison. Art slides his hand into his back pocket, secretly looking for that little ring that’s meant to be seen by the whole America. It’s hiding behind his butt. That’s funny, he thinks. Art takes a deep breath and looks ahead at the rapidly darkening sky, wishing for it to rain—meteor, acid, water, whatever. But of course, it doesn’t happen. The world is not that kind.

And _of course_ Paul had to make them sing the next song. Me and Julio is a weird joke, and Art hates it. Why would he write song like that when they’re trying to _not_ let people know what they are? Oh, sure, Paul wasn’t being literal—that’s what he said to the press. And probably people really _do_ think that there’s no way he writes about his secret so blatantly, but still; can he not make Art sing it? And, stop smirking, Paul. And _just look this way a little, would you?!_

Oh, no. Here comes the woodwinds. Don’t dance, don’t dance, don’t dance…

_Damn it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i welcome you to rewatch America to see Artie stuffing his butt pocket after 'Kathy, I'm lost' ┬┴┬┴┤ ͜ʖ ͡°) ├┬┴┬┴


	5. How Darkness Descends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Concert in Central Park (part 2).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just the encore ok ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> also, did you check out the butt thing? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Paul leaves first. He walks through the door and takes a few steps down the stairs. Art gives the audience a little wave and follows Paul, noticing that he’s waiting for Art with a little smile on his face.

Art slams the door, but he can’t move fast enough. He scoops Paul into him, kissing his lips furiously. Paul gasps a little, then slowly giggles in his mouth. He pushes Art gently on the chest, “You make me dent my guitar.”

“Are you okay?”

Paul, not expecting the question, widens his eyes. His eyebrows twitch into a hesitant frown, but he suddenly realised what the worry was about. He smiles and takes Art’s hand—as he thought, it’s shaking a little. “I’m okay, Artie,” he says gently. “I think that guy’s just stoned or something. He didn’t do anything.”

“Yeah, but,” Art’s eyes dart around, the guy from earlier on might jump on them again, “were you scared? God, I thought I would…”

“Scream like a little girl and faint on the floor? Yeah, I figured.” Paul laughs. Art’s fingers are so cold. He squeezes them firmly, trying to pump warmth from his hand to Art’s. “I’m fine. I was actually more concerned that you might do something stupid on the stage. Good job holding yourself back.” He grins and tilts his head. “But what the fuck with that ‘in the mood’ thing?”

Art chuckles, looking down shyly. “Well, you did real good job with your solo.”

“You were singing along, weren’t you?”

“Excuse me, King of the Universe, I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to sing your song.”

Paul narrows his eyes, but then simply shakes his head and laughs. He pats Art on the arm, nodding a little. “You, uh, did really good with American Tune. I liked how you did that. It was really fun reworking my songs with you.”

Art smiles. Paul clears his throat, still looking down. “In fact, uh, I was thinking…”

“No, no, _no._ Don’t go in there. Let me. HEY! SIMON AND FALAFEL!” Lorne takes a few stairs, visibly relaxing when he finds them talking— _only_ talking _._ He sighs in relief. “Oh, good, I thought you’d be stripping each other,” he whispers. “Okay, you’re gonna have to return to the stage in 15 seconds. Everything’s good here? Paul, are you alright? The security had escorted that jumpy dude out of the premise. He didn’t do anything to you, did he?” Paul shakes his head. Lorne sighs again. “Oh, God, good, good. Okay, hit the road.”

Art frowns at Lorne. “Did you call me ‘falafel’ just now?”

“Did you dance during Me and Julio? GO!”

Paul giggles as Art scowls and blushes ridiculously at impatient Lorne, pushing him through the door again. Art quickly turns around and returns to the stage where people welcome him with an unforgiving screaming, oblivious of the kiss he just shared with Paul not a minute ago, behind that makeshift door, mere metres away from them. They wave their hands again—they should probably come up with different entrance, sometimes—and Art feels like he should do something to not yell angrily at the crowd for still waiting for them. No, that’s not fair. They _are_ performing for the audience; Art can’t just wish them away because he doesn’t feel like it—that’s not how it works. So he kicks a little at the microphone stand—officially, ‘adjusting’ it. He folds his arms in front of his chest and throws a little glance at Paul—a little scowl that pretty much spells ‘please just get this over with’. Paul nods cursorily.

Encore. Who was the first person to get the idea of this faux exit anyway? That’s so tacky. People should do the old exit-when-they-mean-it again, one of these days. Maybe he can ask Paul to _not_ do the last encore.

For Paul, Art’s obvious eagerness is downright funny. As usual, he gets stony and a little angry when pushed too much, and it’s delightful for Paul that he’s not the one doing most of the pushing. And Art knows that too—that’s why he gets even more upset.

The thing is, they _do_ still have the whole celebratory dinner or something party-like planned after the concert. Carrie’s gonna be there, so is Penny. As much as he wants to just draw Art away from the crowd and bang him on the first surface he lay eyes on, they have to—as usual—endure. So it’s really not gonna be over when the concert’s over, and Art’s fury is pretty much futile. Anyway, the wait, in this case, is half the fun for Paul. Seeing Art getting all jumpy like that was the whole point of all the pre-concert teasing.

Paul tries to make more eye contacts with him this time. If Art explodes at the end of the concert, that’s not going to help anyone. He waits until the first encore song is over and tilts his face at Art, coaxing wordlessly in a way that only he can do. Eventually, Art cracks a smile. Paul breaks into a little laughter, and Art, eventually, relaxes significantly. They just have to do this a little more. Let people scream. No, Paul, stop speaking—just get this done fast. The Sound of Silence. Let people clap and sing along. Let them shout it out loud.

It’s late in the evening. Darkness fully descends.

And silence finally falls.


	6. How Long We Have to Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night after the concert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically them being indecent. this is surprisingly long.
> 
> ok idk abt eddie's life, i just found a couple of notes/postcards addressed to them from carrie/paul so i just plucked the name ;v;

“Ladies and gentlemen, Simon and Garfunkel!”

The crew raises their glass, repeating the last three words in unison, and eagerly takes a sip. A sparkling rosé, definitely purchased to match their costumes. Art can’t take any more pink in his life.

Carrie had come with Penny in her arm. She left her best friend to launch herself into Paul, congratulating him with a kiss the moment he stepped out of the stage. Art wasn’t sure what to feel about that. Guilty, because he’d kissed her boyfriend first? Amused, because he’d kissed her boyfriend first? Paul glimpsed at Art briefly right before the kiss ended, and Art quickly turned his head, then, as quickly, regretted it. He didn’t want Paul to think that he’s upset. Art turned his face up again, but the moment’s gone and Paul’s busy talking with Carrie now. Art sighed and tried to come up with conversation with Penny.

They’d driven to a hotel that’s a little further than their apartments, and neither Paul nor Art is looking for the after party. They’re really spent and simply wanna go home and sleep. With each other, preferably. But this is more of the crew’s moment than theirs, and they’re way too polite to refuse. So they play along; dining, drinking, dancing. Carrie always seems to be ready to be whisked off her feet; she enjoys dancing. Art can’t help but smiling when he noticed that Paul finally dances without having to look up. He takes Penny for a spin, once or twice, when the song’s way too good to pass. Paul looks at him and points and laughs and tells Carrie of what happened in their prom, and Art tells him to shut up.

Eddie comes after the first half hour had dawned, and Paul jumps out of his seat to greet his doppelganger, taking Carrie with him. Penny twirls her head around and widens her eyes. She laughs in disbelief. “God, how do you even tell?”

“Quite easy, actually. The nice one is Eddie, the bastard is Paul.” Penny grins at Art’s testament, and they both stand up when Paul and Carrie return to the table with Eddie and his wife. Art quickly takes Eddie in a hug, then shakes his hand and his wife’s, then Paul goes on to introduce the pair to Penny. Penny was about to say something about Paul and Eddie and whether Art had ever gotten them wrong in his youth, when Lorne storms in with a thunderous, “Hey, the Double Vision Boy is back! Give me a hug.”

Paul swats his arms off Eddie. “No. He’s just a child. Shoo! And don’t touch his wife, too. I’m sorry Rose, this one will give you human poisoning.”

Lorne blasts again, “No way! YOU ACTUALLY HAVE A WIFE?! I thought that’s just a rumour. WHEN DID YOU HAVE TIME TO HAVE LIFE?! AND YOU CAN’T GET MARRIED, YOU’RE ONLY 6! Was it a real wedding, or did your friends do it for you on the schoolyard at lunch break? Lorne Michaels, ma’am. Good friend, good fan, trying to sneak into The Simon family tree and would like to ask if you’d be interested in marrying your child to mine, whenever they come around.”

Eddie frowns. “Paul, it was better when you only have Artie as friend. Lorne, Rosemary. Rose, this is the guy I was telling you about.”

“OH MY GOD, HER NAME IS ROSEMARY! Please name your children Parsley and Sage. I’ll name mine Thyme, and we will have themed wedding for them. I'm thinking... 'kitchen pantry'. The men will dress as Kellogg's cornflakes and the women, English muffin...”

Penny steps on Lorne’s big toe. Lorne slumps on the table, clutching his foot and yelping in pain. She smiles triumphantly at the table, giving them a knowing nod. “He has a big shut up button in his toe. Step on it, and you’re gold. I know a hundred ways to keep him quiet.”

"Friendship over!" Lorne groans weakly from under the table, then sobs quietly, nursing his sad toe.

“So.” Penny addresses the table, taking advantage of Lorne’s silence. “That was a successful show, huh? What a crowd! Half a million, that’s gotta be a record.” Eddie takes a sip of his wine, noticing the colour with a little wrinkle on his forehead, then ignores it. From the way Art gives that knowing look at him, the whole pink thing must've been Paul's idea, and his partner is _not_ amused about it. They're hilarious. “What’s gonna come next? The world tour, then… what? Are you guys gonna get back together?”

Paul groans from Eddie's side, who's still eyeing the Garfunkel. “Oh, God, no, I don’t want to talk about work now. Penny, come on. Just let me have a peaceful night. DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!”

Carrie whoops and Eddie raises his glass again. Penny lifts the bottle and begins to distribute its content. Lorne perks up at the coming of wine. They clink their glasses, down their drink, laugh and chat and joke. Roy joins the table, and more bottles are brought to the table. The room is rowdy and gleeful and glimmering, filled with celebration and cheer.

Paul and Art share a look from across the table, smiling at each other through the distortion of their flutes. It’s a room filled with laughter and light, and what they want is darkness and silence.

***

The party goes on and follows Paul to his apartment. Eddie had left with his wife, and so had Roy. But Lorne doesn’t end it at the fancy hotel, no. Private celebration! Just close friends! Which means, just them—him and his best friend Penny and her best friend Carrie and her boyfriend Paul and his best friend Art—such is his official title. And anyway, it’s supposed to be _his_ celebration, too, so it makes no sense if he's left out of it. "Come on, your apartment's just across the street! It's like you never left," said Lorne, which couldn't be farther from the truth.

Anyway, Art had joined them for a smoke. Paul, on the other hand, simply watches from the kitchen counter, quietly observing Art getting lost in the hazy illusion and the other three indulging in variety of substances. Penny had said that she’s best friends with Carrie because they like different guys and different drugs. Well, that must mean that she can't be best friends with Paul, then—not sure about the drugs, but they surely like the same guy. Paul hasn’t tried his hands on any of their poisons, but he doesn’t feel the need to—not yet, anyway. He has an inkling that he might cease his resistance, one of these days. He doesn't like the idea of that. He's probably way too old to experiment on drugs.

But joints—that's a stuff from the past. That's the most Paul and Artie thing there could ever be. Maybe he’ll join for a smoke after all, dissolving his sanity into psychedelic vision and wild cravings. But it’s nice here; sane and silent. Everyone seems to have forgotten that he exists. He’s free to ponder upon things on his own, stare at Art as much as he wants, and not think of what else he has to say to keep the conversation alive. He can hear Carrie, Penny, and Lorne groaning gently as they retreat onto the back of their seats, processing the effect of the drugs, while Art looks at all of them, doe-eyed, shrouded by the smoke, his golden head breaks through it like sunshine through the clouds.

Eventually, Art stands up and walks up to Paul with funny smile on his face. Paul smiles back, waiting patiently until he stumbles to the kitchen counter where Paul is sitting on. “Whoa.” Paul takes him by the arms, steadying him. Art flashes a stupid smile, then frowns, looking very confused. Paul helps. “Thank you?”

“YES! Yes, that. You. Thank you. _You_ are so smart.” He giggles and twists around.

Paul laughs. “What are you?”

“Twizzler.”

Paul shakes his head. People are stupid when they’re high. It probably barely makes any difference with Art because he’s a complete idiot, but it’s still fun to watch. Paul scoops a handful of nuts and holds his palm open. “Are you hungry, Twizzler?” he asked, because Art is always hungry when he’s high.

And Art _is_ hungry, so he cries because a Twizzler does not have mouth. Paul stifles his laughter and lets Art cry in his lap, sobbing uncontrollably like he did when he was 12 and Paul shoved his prized bike to the ground because they were fighting. Boy, did Jules knock his head without mercy to retaliate. Everyone got a good spanking from Mrs. Garfunkel, if he remembers correctly. God, that woman. What an angel.

Paul strokes Art’s head and hums the song he used to sing to Harper when he was still a baby. Art responds similarly to it. Meanwhile, in the living room, the party scene still goes on, although it’s getting quieter and quieter. Lorne is mumbling something about having to get through the laundry room and see his wife, while Penny and Carrie are just murmuring indistinctive words that may or may not have actual meanings. Paul takes it all in—the world where everyone’s here and gone, and he’s the only one who’s really there but also the only one no one noticed.

There’s something quite beautiful about being completely ignored like that. Paul’s whole career centred around him being noticed, trying so hard to get noticed. The burden of it is eating him up, although Paul knows he’s still not letting go of it all. He’s just a little shaken up, what with a few setbacks he's dealing with. But still, it’s nice to relinquish the fight for a while. Like this, in the middle of things and invisible, sitting on top of a kitchen counter with his lover on his lap.

It takes quite a moment until Paul remembers that he’s _not_ stoned and _can_ actually move, so he carefully moves Art’s head from his lap. But Art stirs and stretches a little, waking up—always the light sleeper, Art; high or not high. He's like a tiny squirrel, always restless, always on edge, always ready to run. He groans, groggy from the intoxication, then massages his temple and sits up. He glances at the clock and scrunches his face. “Well, that doesn’t last very long.”

Paul laughs. “No, I forced you to sleep to accelerate the process.”

“Aw, why would you do that? That was some really good stuff, Paul. You could’ve joined us instead of sitting here like a madman, you know?”

“Oh, says the guy who just cried because Twizzlers can’t eat.” Art makes a confused look, but Paul just shakes his head, grinning. “And anyway, I didn’t get you all worked up before concert for nothing.”

Paul moves to unbuckle his belt. Art straightens his back and lets out a hesitant laugh. _“_ Now? _Here?”_

He gives a playful smirk. “I can keep quiet.”

Art looks at Paul again—his face, that is—but Paul only shoots him a ‘come on’ look. Art squirms a little, still slightly disoriented and is very, _very_ aware of people sitting on the couch just within a few steps away from him. But Art is Art, so he only whimpers softly and eventually submits to the request. It's very endearing, how docile he is. Even standing tall with all his fame and his riches and his brain, Art always seems to be in dire need of protection.

Paul does keep quiet. He makes a low groaning noise, but he keeps his lips pressed together while Art works on his demand. The thing about Art is, his mouth can open really wide. It’s noticeable when he’s singing, and sometimes Paul would look at him and wonder if he’d ever tried fitting a shoe in his mouth. That’s probably a weird thing to think about, given their current circumstance, although not entirely unrelated. The absurdity of one’s mind truly is amusing.

Having waited long for release, Paul didn’t last very long, and Art prefers it that way. He glues his eyes shut and he guzzles on the rivulet streaming out of Paul. They stay still for a while, Paul's hand's still pressing on the back of Art's head. When his breathing gets slower, he relaxes the pressure and Art withdraws with a little slurping sound from his mouth. He nervously looks behind his shoulder when he stands up to get himself a proper glass of water and a wash on the face. Paul watches him as he fidgets his way around the kitchen, dazzled at how childish he still seems, even after all these years, even after all these pains. Art is flawless, perfect. Someone really needs to capture his every movement in camera, immortalise him, because the earth will never find another thing so pure walking its ground, ever again.

Paul jumps off the kitchen counter, assessing the damage and deciding that it’s better to get it properly scrubbed before he eats on it again. He approaches Art and wraps his arms around Art’s waist, who’s disoriented and buoyant enough to not realise that Paul’s undoing his jeans. Art whispers in panic when he comes to his senses, “Can’t we do this in less conspicuous location? Where your fucking girlfriend is not within earshot?”

“What? Are you planning to be loud? Come on, it’s faster if you work with me.” Art freezes up in defiance, but Paul laughs and bumps his forehead against Art’s back. “Come on. You know you’ll do it in the end. Can we skip this whole rebelling phase and get that stupid shirt off you?”

“I hate you.” He curses at himself when his fingers move on to unbutton his shirt. Pink. At least he can get it off him now.

“Speaking of working with me.” Paul helps Art out of his pants and shoes and socks. “I was saying something right before Lorne came, that time before the first encore, do you remember that?” Art frowns, trying to recall, then nods. Paul stands up and brushes Art’s shirt off his shoulders. “I was thinking… I’m working on a new album. What do you say if you work on it with me? We can release it as _our_ album. What do you think?”

Art looks even more surprised now, and Paul takes the advantage of the immobility to take Art to the floor. For Paul, it makes perfect sense. If the concert’s supposed to be their marriage, the follow-up tour and studio works will be their attempt at building family, and this album is kind of their baby. Weird as it sounds, if he really needs this whole affair to compare to conventional relationship, this is the perfect opportunity to get a pretty good comparative material. And speaking of wedding night…

Upon feeling a slow stretching of his entrance, Art slowly regains his conscience and begins to giggle. “An album? Are you serious?”

Paul lifts an eyebrow, then curls his fingers around Art’s shaft. “If this is a valid indication at all, I’ll say I’m getting a rock-hard approval. Seriously, who gets off to a job offer?”

Art grins. “Shut up and get this over with.”

“Get that a lot from your lady friends, huh?”

Art lightly pounds his fist at Paul and they both stifle a stream of laughter. Still grinning, Paul pulls him up and pushes him against the cabinet. When the cabinet door and Art's head make a telltale thud, Art shushes Paul, but even he doesn’t have enough willpower to stop and look around. He simply dissolves into small giggles and drowns himself in Paul’s kisses, drinking in the friction and the heat, the part of his brain that keeps grudges and vengeful ideas is relishing the moment of release, liberating all the stress he’d been holding since the first kiss they shared that day.

It’s like having a fever and everything feels a little wrong and everyone is a little hazy, except somehow this feels so right and Paul is crystal clear in his eyes. They halt for a moment, gasping for reality and air, pretty sure they're seconds away from a blissful death. Paul blinks and presses his mouth on Art's. It’s warm and wet—exactly as a chicken soup on a feverish day should be. He hears a muted sloshing sound and slightly lifts his eyelids to take a peek. It seems like Paul’s far from being done.

“Did you ever realise that you actually picked those clothes for me?” Art raises his eyebrows. “Well, the jacket and the shirt. I said I could go on in that same jeans for weeks.”

“What, really? I chose a _pink_ shirt?”

Paul laughs. “Why do you hate pink so much?”

Art shrugs. “I didn’t. Then I did. It’s the colour of your wedding, so.”

“And you don’t have any good memory about my wedding?”

“It’s _your_ _wedding._ ” He frowns. “Did you choose it because you know I hate it? Why do you like pink so much, then? Is that a cry for help or a big gay flag you wear ironically?”

Paul grins and stops. Art slaps both hands over his mouth to stifle his sharp grunt when Paul suddenly pulls out of him. “Get up,” Paul whispers, his eyes sparkling with mischief, Art's pretty sure that that's what demons look like. Paul gets on his feet and lifts Art forcefully. Art, flustered out of his mind, flails and swivels his head around like a confused owl. Paul grabs him by the waist and twists him around, carefully pushing his back down the kitchen counter, and resumes their encounter. Art writhes under him, all tensed-up and panicking. “Don’t worry. They’re pretty knocked out.”

Art glares at Paul, “Yeah, but they’re still there!” He tries again, and quickly shuts himself up when Paul starts pounding on him.

“So, as I was saying,” Paul continues, as if the commotion did not happen. “Some of them already have a bunch of tracks laid down, but we can work on the harmony. I have a couple of songs I wanna try with your voice. And I _may_ have written a song for you...” He pauses to assess the situation for a while. Art is quiet and quivering, burying his face on the smooth surface of kitchen counter, desperate to hide himself. Probably this is too much. Probably. But Art feels so good when he’s exasperated and nervous, all clenched and pulsing. Paul glides himself in and out slowly, tracing the texture and the heat he’s enveloped in. It’s like iron in the fire and he’s being casted into a weapon.

“Paul,” Art grits his teeth, sucking air through it, making low whistling sound, “you’re _not seriously_ talking about that right now! Just stop fucking with me already!”

“Oh, alright.”

Art muffles a shriek and drops his head on his arm. “I hate you,” he murmurs, and Paul laughs. That’s the most evil-sounding noise Art had ever heard, and he’s cursing his 11-year-old self for not running to the other direction when he first heard it. “Paul, get back in there and finish this!”

Then Paul giggles. It’s the kind of giggling he used to do when they were on stage together and something funny came up. Art had thought about that laughter earlier today during the concert. He regrets ever wanting to hear it. Paul pats his ass, supposed it’s meant to calm him down, but it just gets Art more flustered. “All in good time, sweetheart. Here.” His left hand reaches out to something rattling and slips it into Art’s fist. It’s cold and small—a key. Might as well be Paul. “Go to my office downstairs and wait for me there.” He lifts his eyebrow and smirks. “What? You said you don’t want to do this where my girlfriend’s within earshot.”

Art slumps his shoulders. “I hate you,” he repeats. “What are you gonna do?”

“I’m gonna get my girlfriend to bed, you idiot. I’ll get them all in bed. Well, except Lorne. But I’ll make sure he’s not dead.” He beams up and pulls Art, who’s curling himself into an upset ball. He’s probably already exhausted all Art’s capacity to be teased, and he might have to pay for it later sometimes. Or rather, he definitely will. Art is not known for letting go of things. Still, it’s pretty much worth it. Art is like a baby—he reacts so honestly at every stimulus offered to his body and mind. It's always wonderful to see the purity of human's unrepressed emotions. Paul presses his palms on either side of Art’s waist, cooing softly, “Turn around. Let me look at you.”

Tired of refusing, Art wordlessly follows the direction. He lets out a weary sigh, but he can feel his anger is collapsing as second goes by. He doesn’t like it. He’d prefer to have a chance to unleash it instead of letting it diminish the moment Paul’s face shows up. But he lets Paul glides his hands through his body, following the smooth surface effortlessly. Art feels so sweaty, it makes no sense that _anyone_ would wanna touch him. But Paul smiles, even at the pool of sweat dripping through his fingers, and runs his hands over and over again.

Paul stops his thumb on the side of Art’s belly, then tilts his head studiously. “You know, there are people out there who call these things ‘beauty mark’.” Paul bows down and kisses the dark spots on Art’s body. “No wonder you have so many of them. You are so beautiful.”

Art knits his eyebrows, smiling. “I’m not a girl, Paul.”

“I’m not saying you are. I’m just saying you’re beautiful. The two aren’t mutually exclusive, Artie. Those who say it is, must be unfortunate enough to have never seen you.”

Art grins. “You know I always feel weirded out when you flirt.”

“Oh, shut up.” Paul chuckles and tiptoes to kiss Art on the cheek. He cups Art’s face and whispers, “Go downstairs and wait for me.”

And that’s it. It’s so easy. Art just turns all pink and quiet, and he’ll do as per instructed without any question. How anyone can be simultaneously that intelligent and that stupid, that independent and that helpless, is beyond Paul. Art is the most beautiful paradox in existence.

Paul removes his stained shirt and begins to walk towards the living room, leaving Art standing in the kitchen, making small mumbling with unintelligible words to himself. He stops when he noticed that Art is bending over to pick up his scattered clothes, and laughs quietly. “Leave that.”

Art freezes mid-air, throwing Paul a panicky look. “Paul…”

“And no touching yourself until I get downstairs.”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

***

Despite wanting to kill Paul, Art did make his way downstairs. Naked. His final reasoning is that it’s gonna be done much faster if he just followed the request; otherwise, they’d engage in lengthy arguments and Paul, as usual, will have the final say—he has a natural way of always getting that in the end. Then they’d wind up being pretty upset with one another, and that would ruin the whole mood of the night. And it’s not worth it anyway. The bottom line of this whole thing is they both wanna fuck, and Paul’s making it harder beyond reasons.

Art turns the key and quietly slips into Paul’s sleek office. He walks across the room and toys with Paul’s swirly chair, considering whether it’s alright to sit there and play before Paul can catch him in the act, but deciding that it’s not the best idea to sit anywhere when he’s practically dripping from both ends. So Art walks around, studying each object he encounters with unnecessary intensity to distract his mind from the fact that he’s stark naked in the middle of someone else’s office. He stares at the switched-off TV, who's challenging him to a silent duel. Art doesn’t like the way it looks at him. He’s probably still a little high.

That’s when Art spots a bunch of pink tulips in a clear vase on the sofa table—the exact flower, Art remembers, that he wore in Paul's wedding. He approaches the pretty sofa table, noting at how similar it is with the one Paul used to have in his childhood home. The Simons have moved, Paul had told Art. Some years ago, not very long after the Laurie incident. It makes him—Art—a little sad that they’ll never be able to revisit the place where they first kissed, where they first made love, and probably, where they first fell in love. For Art, at least, probably. How did it even start anyway?

He picks up a white envelope that’s slipped under the vase, addressed to him with Paul’s unmistakable handwriting. He opens the folding to find a music sheet, and he begins to smile. It’s a song Paul wrote for him—it must be it. Something new, he thinks to himself. Blue balls is probably Paul's stupid idea for something blue—wouldn't put it past him, that idiot. Art leans his hand on the back of the sofa and begins reading, mumbling the probable melodies he can grasp from the note. What's the something old? Their old songs. What's something borrowed? Maybellene, probably. Paul didn't give any reason on why he insisted on singing that song in the concert. Idiot. Super idiot. Mega idiot. Can Art love him more than this?

By then, Paul has already descended the stairs with Art’s clothes in his arm, along with a couple of robes and some other sleeping attires. He stops at the threshold and listens to the faint humming from inside the room. Art is singing. Paul presses his forehead against the door, closing his eyes and smiling, absorbing the sound and storing it in his head. He doesn’t want this voice to ever go. But still Paul cracks the door open and Art jumps in panic. He tilts his head to the side, taking in Art’s blushing face and his glistening skin under dim light through the slits of the curtains and the pink flowers and the ivory table against light brown sofa. He grins. “You should be a sculpture.”

Art lets out a relieved sigh. Paul approaches him with a smile. “So, you found the song, huh? It’s still a work in progress. I’m still tinkering it. But that’s the idea.” He drops the stash of clothes on the sofa table, then moves to wrap his arms around Art, nuzzling on his side. “You _do_ realise that I have blanket right there, on the couch?”

Art laughs. “No, not really. But it’s fine. I’m not cold.”

“You’re a numb freak. It’s the middle of September.” Paul presses closer to Art, rubbing his palms up and down to keep the latter warm. “So, what do you think? You know, you haven’t really given me answer on the album thing.”

Art smiles. “I think it’s sweet. Shelter of Your Arm.” He puts down the note and runs his hand over Paul’s hair. He doesn’t get to do that often. Paul used to be very mad when Art did that to him, when they were kids. He’s much less angry about being patted on the head since they first made love. Art tries to think of things he gets to do to Paul, now that they're long past being mere friends. They get to kiss and fuck, for one—that's a pretty big one, so Art stops the train of thoughts there. “And of course I’d like to do it. I love to sing with you.”

“Good.” Paul kisses Art on random surface he can find the fastest; he doesn't even see where his lips landed. “Speaking of which. What do you think? About the concert, I mean.”

“Oh, it was a disaster.”

Paul spits out a hearty laughter. “It’s not that horrible. I mean, sure, I don’t think it was our best performance… But it’s _not_ horrible.”

Art scowls. “You fucking sucked my dick before we went on stage. I needed my blood elsewhere, and you just fucking sucked me off.”

“Like a vampire. Fear me.” Paul laughs again and reaches out to find the TV remote. “Okay, you know what? Let’s settle this. Let’s see if any news channel is covering us. They might have a clip or two, and we can see whether we actually… sucked.”

Art groans in disgust. Paul giggles, ignores him, and turns on the TV. The first channel he finds is already showing a scoop of their concert, so Paul takes Art to the couch and they lean on each other there, watching themselves on TV. Paul cringes at the noise. “God, that _was_ horrible.”

“I _told_ you—AFTER concert. You wouldn’t listen, would you?”

“Ssshh.” Paul smacks his palm on Art’s mouth, stirring an angry protest from the squirming man in his embrace. Paul grins and points at the TV. “Look at how flustered you were when I touched you.”

Art shoves Paul’s hand and puts his complains into words. “That’s because you got me all worked up before going on stage!”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first time, darling.”

Art pouts, but leaning closer to Paul anyway. They watch quietly, criticising themselves in silence, occasionally flipping through the channels to find clip after clip of it until they can piece them all into one, registering the actual gravity of what they’d done earlier that day. For a moment, even Paul was shell-shocked at the magnitude of it, and he just sits there wordlessly with the usual stony expression he has on whenever he’s overwhelmed.

Art inches closer, sneaking his fingers around the loop of Paul’s belt, hating men for their consistent use of that damned apparatus. He unbuttons Paul’s jeans, slides down the zipper, and slips his hand into Paul’s brief, feeling him coming back alive in his grip. Art kisses Paul on the pelvis, then traces the body upwards with his lips. Paul flashes a toothy grin when Art’s reached his chest. “Taking charge?”

He shrugs. “No, I’m asking nicely.” Paul pulls him up, but Art retreats hesitantly. “Unless you’re just going to stop mid-way again. I’d rather get the song done, if that’s the case.”

Paul laughs. “God, no. No, no, I promise. I’m exploding here.”

They quickly settle into position, laughing at how frantic their movements are. Art doesn't mind Paul pulling his hip closer and kissing it before releasing Art to lower himself. Paul doesn't tell Art the colour that he's seeing when they close their eyes to kiss, or the flowers that bloom in his head when their tongues graze each other. He will tell Art, someday—he will tell Art everything—why he did what he did, every choice he made, how it all was out of the thought of him. But right now, he just wants everything to wait while the two of them grind onto each other, testing the spring mechanism of his sofa, fighting for breath like it's the last there is for them.

“Paul.” Art watches as a drop of sweat slides down his chest, stopping and dispersing where their bodies meet. The rest of the sweat follows, like a race. It's like trickles of rain that spatter and fall on the window. Paul pays attention to entirely different things—slightly Art, mostly his own pleasure. Art takes one of his hands because he likes how their fingers intertwine. Paul lets himself be taken. “You know how we’re gonna get a lot of money from this?”

Paul’s eyes fly open, surprised, but soon he refocuses and tries to process the conversation. “Yeah. What about it?”

“I mean, we already have a lot of money,” Art continues. His speech is always like that—a little stretched, on the border of whining, very timid and almost shy, slightly whispery like he might be wrong. He can never be wrong. Art is the only thing that's right. “And we might get a lot more after the tour. And then, there’s the album…”

Paul smiles. From the nape of the neck, Paul snakes his fingers up through Art’s entangled hair, then pulls on it a little. He plants little kisses on Art’s neck, licking on the salty trail up to his sensitive ear. Art moans a little and Paul buries his nose on his shoulder, then jostles his hip slightly, demanding Art to resume the rocking movements on his lap. “Okay, so we’re filthy rich. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I wanna keep on doing this.”

“Fucking and getting richer?”

“No, knucklehead.” Art giggles. He slows down a little and leans forward to kiss Paul on the lips. Below him, Paul’s writhing, impatient. Art smiles with his mouth locked, savouring the glory of a little vengeance. “I want to be together with you. Like this. Forever. Just the two of us.”

“I want that too, Artie.” Paul tightens his grips and pushes Art down. For a moment, they stop talking, or even thinking. Art listens intently to the sound of their flesh meeting with indecent splashing noise, like a slap on a teary face. He feels them rubbing each other, convulsing together, then he closes his eyes and gets himself lost in the sensation of Paul’s fingers crudely grasping on his hip, his groin pressing possessively, and Art, screaming into the quiet office, drinking him in. Paul collapses on him, their bodies making one final slapping sound, and his breath feels hot on Art’s neck as he pants and struggles to whisper, “How do we do that?”

“We run,” Art answers, his mouth runs halfway between deliberation and spontaneity. He lets the words float in the air, observing its function, its meaning, its desperation, its finality. It dawns on him that it’s the only truth—that’s the only thing they can do. Art tightens his embrace around Paul, and squeaks softly. “We run. Get into our car, drive through the night, and wake up in Mexico.”

Paul chuckles sleepily. “That’s nice, but can we not do Mexico? That sparks bad memory. How about Canada?”

“Or we can go further. Get on a freighter and sail to Spain. Or China. Or India. Or South Africa.”

“South Africa,” Paul repeats, smiling. “That sounds far away.”

“Probably because it is.” Art's eyes get heavier, too. He slinks his hand down Paul's spine, feeling every knot, remembering him. "Let's go far away and never look back. Be nobody. Can you do it for me? Will you do it for me?"

Paul falls silent for a while. He tilts his head slightly, watching what he can see of Art from where he's lying down. Art's slightly shaking, but he's hiding it. Because it's a big thing that he's asking—to relinquish everything Paul had been fighting for his whole life, to let go of the core of himself—but he really wants it. Art, he realised, had never wanted anything more.

“Or," Paul starts softly, "we can buy a ship and sail around the world for the rest of our lives,” he suggests. He draws a deep breath, then lets out a long, dreamy sigh, head already swarming through the thoughts of drifting across the sea. “Undetected, all ours. We can buy small villas in Italy and Hawaii or anywhere else for when we want to have our feet on land. Hire gay couples as crew in the ship, let them live there with their partners, too. It’s gonna be like Noah’s Ark for gays.”

Art laughs. “Noah’s Ark for gays. And we’ll let the pious drown.”

Paul rests his weight on his palms, lifting himself up so he’s hovering over Art, like a spacecraft about to land. He stares at the face of the moon, then nods in resolution. “Let’s do it.”

Art feels heat stabbing him from the back of his eyes, and he lets tears roll down his face when he nods. Paul catches the droplet with his tongue, consuming it in a heavy kiss. He keeps on showering Art with those kisses, following the trail of dark constellation on his body, counting the many times heaven marked him to be granted beauty. If he could die and tell God that he hasn’t given enough, he would gladly plunge himself into a pit of fire right now. But will He listen? With the weight of his sin dangling around his feet, will he even float?

Paul doesn’t want to use his mouth for anything else but kissing Art. But it’s only a little bit more. He only has to sing for the world a little bit more, then he will run with the moon in his hands. The world will be dark and silent, and for the first time, he will be there, away, luminous and loud.


	7. How Fire Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News I Carrie.
> 
> The quoted parts are the continuation of Chapter 2 of this instalment where Paul explains his songs to Art ;v;

> _Can we talk about Bridge?_
> 
> _Ugh, I was hoping that’s not gonna come up._
> 
> _Why not? That’s your magnum opus._
> 
> _Yeah, sure, it’s a freaking masterpiece, your voice was divine, the music was inspired, whatever. I don’t like that album._
> 
> _Why?_
> 
> _It’s a goodbye album._

***

The sound of orange juice trickling into a clear glass somehow gets amplified in that flat when it’s morning. Paul stretches himself and finds the other pillow emptied and cold. Carrie woke up before him. That’s very unusual.

He wiggles out of the bed and slips into his slippers and fetches his robe. The floor is cold when it’s morning, and in spite of the heater, Paul still needs extra warmer when summer’s over. Art is insane. How did he walk around naked and just find things to be perfectly comfortable like that? His nerves are made of something else, really. Perhaps what he’s lack of in surety is compensated by endurance to the cold.

Paul finds Carrie leaning over the kitchen counter, pouting sleepily with a glass of juice nursed in her hands. She flits her gaze towards Paul after the summon, but her face doesn’t light up. It could be the drugs from last night. Carrie’s always a little down after her drugs spree. Paul takes in the view of his living room and notices that Lorne is still sleeping in his couch. He glances briefly towards the guest bedroom, then asks, “Is Penny still in?” Carrie nods glumly. Paul narrows his eyes to try to see the kitchen clock. It’s oddly early for her to wake up.

He approaches Carrie and gives her a little morning kiss. She’s still pouting, but after a moment, she begins to wrap her arms around Paul and buries herself in his shoulder, relaxing and warming up. Paul grazes her back, swinging her gently like rocking a baby. She mumbles into him, “It’s nice of you to return to the bedroom last night.”

Paul laughs. “Where else was I supposed to sleep?”

“Well, you _did_ put Garfunkel downstairs.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not that close with Penny yet. I just thought it’s gonna be weird to get them together just like that.” He pulls away a little. “Is he gone already? Or is he still downstairs?”

“I think he’s still downstairs. He’s not really the kind to leave without excusing himself, is he?” Carrie’s eyebrows flinch a little and a smile tugs on her lips. “No, he’s definitely a proper ‘this is what my Momma told me’ kind of guy. You can see it in his hair.”

“Oh, that’s very mean. Remember that. Tell him that when he comes upstairs to say goodbye.”

Carrie laughs. Paul smiles and lets her go. Carrie is smiling—his work here is done. For many people, that seems like a very valid reason to live: to make her smile. Paul wonders if that were true for him, and concludes that it doesn't matter as long as she _does_ smile. He gives her a quick peck before shooting a row of questions: “So, what do you feel like having for breakfast? Are you alright after last night? Want me to get you something from outside? Want me to cook you eggs?”

“Ooh, that sounds good, the egg.” Paul nods and turns on his heels, setting to reach the refrigerator for eggs. But Carrie calls again. “Paul, listen, we have to talk.” Paul freezes in his step, then turns around. Carrie looks troubled, tensed. She never looks like that before—not even for a movie. Is it the drugs? No, it's not the drugs. Drugs only gets her groggy. This is something else. This is about them. And true enough, she continues with: “After everyone’s gone. We need to talk.”

Paul’s shoulders slump. “Oh, God,” he mutters. Paul strides back and takes Carrie’s wrist weakly. “You’re not… You’re not leaving me, are you?”

Carrie takes a deep breath. Paul noticed how the air quivers as it left to settle within her. “It’s not me,” she said, and her voice wavers and whispered. “I’m not leaving you. But maybe you will.”

Frown returns to Paul’s forehead. Looking up at him seems like the most difficult thing for her to do right then, but Carrie is strong. She steels herself and catches him with her eyes.

“For Artie.”

***

> _So let’s start with track one. The_ biggest _song you’ve ever made. Well, other than The Sound of Silence, I guess. But, Bridge. Let’s talk about Bridge. In Bridge._
> 
> _God, Artie, stop talking._
> 
> _Hah. Okay, then_ you _start talking._
> 
> _Alright, fine. Bridge. Well, you know, I was… During that time, I was kinda heavy on writing with drugs, you know? So you know how it’s like… You just get, I don’t know, honest. With your feelings. So you say things that you had been keeping inside, and shit like that._
> 
> _What were you keeping?_
> 
> _That. I would do that. I would do anything. When it’s really tough, I’d do anything to make it easier. I will lie down and be a bridge so it’s easier to tread that troubled water…_
> 
> _For me?_
> 
> _Who else, fucker?_
> 
> _Uh, your_ wife? _Sail on, silver girl?_
> 
> _Yeah, I can’t write ‘go on, golden boy’, now, can I?_
> 
> _I would’ve liked that._
> 
> _Fuck off._

***

Horrible breakfast. It has nothing to do with the food, of course. Penny is all woozy and Art is sore, and Lorne definitely feels like he’s having a déjà vu because this breakfast is totally like that breakfast he had when good old Garfunkel tried to kill him with a beer bottle. Is it the drugs, still playing tricks on him? He’s not sure, but he starts belting out, “ _I don’t know what is real, I can’t touch what I feel, and I hide behind the shield of my illusion_ —HIT IT, GARFUNKEL!”

Penny groans. “Lorne, you want to lose your foot?”

Carrie is gloomy, but that’s not the most surprising thing in the world, given their last night’s activity—at least the rest of the breakfast guests think that way. But Art realised that Paul’s hand, whilst picking up bits of eggs with his fork, is shaking terribly. He pretends not to see it, though. He focuses himself on paper after paper, each showing photos of them singing in the early evening, smiling, bathed in spotlight. Lorne checks out the paper from behind his shoulder, his eyes glittery with pride and excitement, like a proud father reading his son's acceptance letter to a fancy dream university.

Art lifts his gaze from the paper, stealing a glance at Paul.

Storm is already here.

***

> _It’s on the nose._
> 
> _It’s not._
> 
> _Okay, listen. There’s something about my life that I wish is not the way it is. About_ our _life, really. It’s a song of wishful thinking, how can I be more obvious?_
> 
> _Am I the swan?_
> 
> _You sure have the neck for it._
> 
> _Gee, flattery. But, wait… ‘I’d rather sail away’, then ‘I’d rather feel the earth beneath my feet’. Why do we want different things?_
> 
> _We_ did _want different things. You wanted to go, I wanted to stay. But, again, it’s a song of things that weren’t. In the end, you stayed, and I went away. What a stupid pair we make. But then again, we_ were _kids. We didn’t know what we wanted._
> 
> _I did. I wanted you._

***

The last guest is gone and Paul closes the door. He softly bumps his head on the door, wishing for concussion that might incite a state of comatose or complete loss of memory. Or life—it doesn’t really matter now.

“Ready to talk?”

Carrie is leaning with one hand on the kitchen counter, the other on her hip. Despite being barely 5 feet tall, she looks formidable like a scary cave or a giant beast. Paul turns around reluctantly, wiping his palms on his trousers, wishing he doesn’t have to have conversation over a surface on which he had sex just the night before with the guy that's about to be the centre of the conversation in this unexpected morning. He'd wanted to have that scrubbed first before touching it, but it’s too late now—he already ate there. But probably best not to mention that to Carrie. Unless she already knew.

Paul sighs. “No, but I don’t think there’s any way around it.”

“No.” Carrie shakes her head. She looks at her fingers, spread thinly on the flat table, desperate to find something to focus on because her mind is rambling to her right now. She clenches them into a fist, then straightens her back and faces Paul. “I guess you’d like to know how I found out?”

“Dreading the details, but, yes.”

In spite of herself, Carrie breaks into a small smile. Paul just does that. Words come out of his mouth, and it just delights her—even when it’s supposed to hurt. She begins her tale. “I was looking for you last night,” she said. “You weren’t in bed, so I looked for you. I thought probably I kicked you out in my sleep... Remember how that happened once? Yeah, so I looked for you to tell you that you’re welcomed in my bed. But you weren’t anywhere,” she takes a deep breath, “so I went downstairs.”

Oh.

“I thought, it’s after the concert, you just started working together again... Probably you’re cooking some sort of future collaboration or something, so I went to your office.”

Great. They literally fucked merely a few feet away from her, and she had to find out when they’d made respectful distance.

Carrie sighs. “You didn’t lock the door, it was slightly opened, so I just walked in. But,” she clears her throat, “not too long. I just caught a glimpse and I ran back upstairs. I thought I was dreaming, or delusional, I don’t know. But then I woke up this morning and it just dawned on me. I still don’t know if it’s real, but it just… it just makes sense, with everything. Somehow, it does. I looked back and somehow, I thought, I should’ve known; it’s very obvious. You two…” Her eyebrows meet in the middle of her forehead and they dance—a little waltz that’s too twitchy to be beautiful, too angry to be romantic. “You two are lovers.”

That last word hits him hard. Paul feels like he could collapse right there in the middle of his kitchen, but even his body decided to prolong the torture. No, he just goes numb, detached, but his whole self is still there, hanging by a thread of consciousness that forces him to listen to everything—every true accusation—but robs him off his ability to craft words. That’s what he does for living, and that fails him only when it’s necessary.

“Carrie…”

“Listen, I’ve cheated on you Paul,” she intercepts quickly. Her hands grasp her chest as if Paul had just stabbed her simply by mentioning her name. Carrie’s eyes begin to water and Paul doesn’t know if he even has the right to dry them anymore. “I’ve cheated on you from time to time. People know, and I know you know that, too. But I came back to you. I came back to you _every time_ because I love you. I left Chicago with a wedding ring, because all I could think of was how I wanted it to be yours. I left him for you. I left a marriage for you. And I will keep on coming back to you again, and again, and again, no matter how much I screw up, as long as there’s a scrap of possibility for us to be together. Because I know, with everything I’ve got, I love you. I fucking love you, Paul Simon, and I’m not letting you go without a fight. But if you’ve never loved me and you never will…”

“Carrie, I _do_ love you.”

“No,” she snaps, her body swings backwards, hurled by the words. Carrie’s eyes glare at him angrily, tears already pooling below it, but they refuse to rain. She points her finger at him. “You _don’t_ get to tell me that. You’re in love with him, so you don’t get to tell me…”

“I GET TO TELL YOU THAT!” Carrie jumps and retreats when Paul violently bangs his fist on the counter. She stares at it with a little fear, then a little worry upon noticing how that fist trembles and pales, his grip had strangled it, cutting blood out of it. Paul’s eyes widen, wild, and he shakes like a terrified—or raging—animal. “I get to tell you that," he whispers through his teeth. "I get to tell you things that are true. I love you. I don’t care whether you’ve left me, or for whom… All I know is that I love you, and I will run to you if you're not returning to me. I don’t know how this works, Carrie, but it just does. I love you. It doesn’t matter how much I love him, it doesn’t change the fact that I do love you.”

Paul cries first. She doesn’t know whether it’s from the pain in his hand or in truth his mouth just spilled. All she knows is what she sees—the love of her life howling like a beast, repeating her name like a prayer, all other words forgotten, never existing. _Carrie! Carrie! Carrie!_ He repeats her name until it begins to sound unreal. Carrie is a dream now.

She clasps her hands over her mouth and begins to sob on the floor. What they’re doing isn’t real. Two people so much in love cannot cry that desperately.

***

> _So, you know how every time we get together, a girl always shows up and we’d break up to be with them?_
> 
> _Uh-huh._
> 
> _Yeah, that’s Cecilia._

***

What occurs in his mind is that he’d been there with Art before—crying loudly, uncontrollably, so desperately that it felt like they might die from it. So his next thought is that they haven’t showered all morning, and that they might soon be in dire need of some Chinese food.

Carrie, of course, had never been in this situation before and doesn’t expect any moo shu pork to follow her breakdown. So Carrie gets up, dusts herself, and composes herself. She stands up straight and turns her body towards Paul, but not quite meeting his eyes.

“I’m gonna start shooting for the next film pretty soon,” she said. “I think the filming will start in about January… And I know you’re gonna do a follow-up to this concert, so I guess we’re gonna be pretty busy in the next few months, and probably even next year… I just…”

Carrie’s shoulders fall, and she sits down heavily on the closest stool. “I love you so much, Paul,” she said, miserably. “And I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how this is gonna work, but I really do want this to work.”

Paul waits.

“We will have time to be apart, soon,” she concludes. “So we will have a chance to examine our relationship from afar. Because I can’t think right now, Paul. This is just too insane for me to process. But I’ll stick around for a while, and then we will live our lives without each other for a while and probably… probably after that we can figure out what we want. Whether I can deal with this and how to deal with this, whether you want me in your life or whether you want him…” She chokes. Her hands begin to tremble again. She quickly shoves them between her thighs, forcing them to stop. Carrie is done with crying now. But still her voice breaks when she says, “Let’s see if there’s any way we can work this out.”

And Paul looks at her and thinks of how everyone he truly ever loves had only professed their love to him in such miserable way.

***

> _Well, this one’s pretty easy, too. I’m complaining about us, having to keep up a façade for the sake of our business. That’s obvious, right?_
> 
> _Yeah, actually. But I used to simply think it’s about how you’re tired of performing._
> 
> _That’s not wrong. Isn’t pretending I’m not in love with you a kind of performance, too? Definitely the one I’m very tired of doing._
> 
> _And judging from Lorne’s observation, it seems like you’re not that good of a performer after all._
> 
> _It’s not very easy to pretend I don’t love you._

***

Art waves his hand from his stool, smiling so bright it looks like he brings the next year’s summer into the studio. He should stop sitting with hunched back like that; his posture is already very miserable. Probably it’s his fault. Art wouldn’t have hunched back if he doesn’t have to always look down every time he has to talk to his best friend. Art should’ve stuck with Sandy, who's towering, even for him. But, then again, he always does walk with hunched back, so it’s probably not on Paul after all.

“Hey, Paul,” he said, grinning from ear to ear like Cheshire Cat. A much more peaceful time, their youth. Alice in Wonderland and all that. Art said that his career began when he followed the White Rabbit and wound up in Wonderland. Did he ever tell the world of the hardship he’d been encountering along his way? How the White Rabbit continuously leaving him behind, obsessing with that stupid clock in his hand and that stupid Queen in her throne?

Paul grunts in reply, deciding that it’s a good time to sound like a caveman. He slings his guitar and takes a seat at a stool, starting to play to prevent Art from speaking too much. Art interrupts him anyway, with an “is that the song you showed me the other day”, to which Paul shakes his head. And then Art keeps quiet and listens intently, like he used to do in class when the teacher tried to explain them of geometry. With fascination. Very much in love. What a dork. Paul eventually has to stop to appreciate his attention. “It’s a song I wrote sometimes ago. Last year or so.”

Art lights up, hearing Paul’s reaction. “What about?”

“Unhappy thoughts.”

He has a lot of that, too, now. About the same woman, about the same failing relationship. It's not failing because of that same reason, but it's failing with even more severe devastation. No, right now, he doesn’t feel like he’s allergic to her. He did feel that when he wrote the song, with his demands of what she couldn’t give, and all that, but this one is not on both of them. This time, it’s entirely on him.

Paul thought that short answers would deter Art, but he keeps up his enthusiasm, staring at the guitar as if it’s something sparkly with goldfish swimming in it. He can’t help but smiling, in spite of it all.

***

> _What do you mean you didn’t know?_
> 
> _I really didn’t! I asked you to write about Frank Lloyd Wright! I thought it was me saying goodbye to him!_
> 
> _Well, Artie, did you harmonise ‘til dawn with this Wright bitch? No. You did it with_ this _bitch. Okay, don’t call me bitch._
> 
> _So you really have been thinking about breaking up for a while, huh?_
> 
> _Since Mardi Gras, actually. I just thought I couldn’t do it anymore. I should_ _love my wife. It makes no sense to even try loving the two of you equally._
> 
> _I thought about doing that too, once. With Laurie. That’s why I kept my distance. I wanted to love her properly. I wound up caving in and hurting you both. It was either I hurt alone or I hurt two people I love, and I couldn’t stand hurting alone._
> 
> _Artie, do what you want with me. I don’t want you to hurt. Ever._
> 
> _And when you do that, it hurts. It really hurts to see you taking the bullets for me._
> 
> _Well, I’ll keep on doing that. So I guess we will just keep on hurting each other, then._
> 
> _There’s no way around it, huh?_
> 
> _No. Love’s a bitch. The ultimate bitch._

***

“I bet you two just laughed at me behind my back for not knowing.”

Paul raises an eyebrow. He clears his throat and carefully settles the tray on the table. He stirs one sugar for Carrie and a splash of milk for himself. Carrie’s tea cup is deep blue-grey in checkered pattern. Paul’s is white with tiny blue dots. It was a wedding gift, when he married Peggy. But Peggy noticed that Paul liked it so much, so she gave it to him. Paul was surprised. He didn’t think that he liked it at all. But after a long pondering, Paul realised that he _did_ always take that tea set every time Peggy asked him to make tea.

Fondness is automated.

“Carrie, don’t take it as an attack, okay? It’s a question meant for comparison, I’m not throwing things back at you.” Paul sighs and hands Carrie the tea cup—it’s rattling on the saucer, a little. “Did _you_ laugh at me when you’re sleeping with someone else?”

Carrie frowns. “Of course not.”

Paul nods and lifts his own teacup to his lips. “Same answer,” he said. “My relationship with him was not made out of spite of you. My relationship with you was not made out of spite of him. I love both of you. I don’t want to hurt either of you.”

Carrie sighs. She’s not particularly convinced with the idea of being able to love two people at the same time equally, but she gets what Paul said, and she knows it’s true. Paul does love her. He’s trying so hard to make this work _in spite_ of loving someone else, too. And probably the reason why his feelings for both of them can sustain is because it’s slightly different in nature. Like the way Carrie can love Paul and her father, or Penny, or Mark, or anyone else she loves... even, in a twisted way, perhaps, her mother. One can love another in varying capacity, and perhaps what Paul feels for the two of them greatly intersects but are essentially two separate things—that’s why it’s possible. Probably.

“There’s one thing I don’t really understand,” Carrie finally said, with another little sigh. She blows on her teacup and tentatively sips on it before relaxing to the warmth. Carrie leans her head to the back of the sofa and folds her legs, curling comfortably. “Well, I’m just… I don’t know. If you love him, I understand that you can’t be together publicly. But, what about me? And your ex-wife? Are you… You’re not just doing this to avoid getting called out, are you?”

Paul shakes his head. “No, Carrie. I love you.”

“But…” Carrie frowns again, “I’m not a man.”

“Oh.” Paul puts down his teacup and stares at it. Is it funny? It sounds funny. But it’s serious, so he can’t laugh. Ah, he laughs anyway. Because it’s Carrie. She lives to laugh. “Okay, first of all, Carrie Fisher, you are thrice the man he is. And second of all, I don’t like men in general. I just… you know. I just like Artie.” God, he's had this conversation several times now, probably he should write it down. Make a T-shirt of it or something. _I DON'T LIKE MEN, I JUST LIKE ART GARFUNKEL._ He's got to wear that for his next album cover, definitely. Art can be on the back side and wear something like, _I LIKE EVERYONE BUT I LIKE PAUL SIMON BEST._ Yeah, that sounds like Art.

“Huh.” Carrie looks up, dipping her teaspoon into the pool of sweet liquid in her cup, then suckles on it. The faint taste of thinned sugar melts onto her tongue as the metal quickly gets colder. “What comes after thrice?”

“It’s four times, Carrie. Sometimes you just gotta let things go. There’s no ‘frice’ in English words.”

“Frice,” she repeats, then she laughs loudly. “Why don’t people use that word? That’s a _great_ word.” Paul laughs back and nods. Carrie lowers her gaze again and smiles to her tea cup. “Did you ever think about telling me?”

“About frice?”

Carrie snickers and shakes her head. “No, idiot.” Smile fades from her face a little. “About Art. You’re scared?”

Paul stops. He returns the tea cup to the table, afraid of breaking it because his hands are beginning to shake. He clenches them, then clears his throat. “Actually, I proposed that idea, recently. I really thought you could... Anyway, honestly, you reacted exactly the same way I imagined you would. And this… this is… I can’t even begin to explain how thankful I am with how you’re treating me right now.”

He closes his eyes and withdraws as much air as possible into his lungs, until it bloats beyond comfort. “But, I don’t know whether I’d carry on with it. Even with images of best-case scenarios, I don’t think I would’ve told you.”

Carrie watches how Paul exhales slowly with his face scrunched as if it hurts. It probably does. Breathing. She asks, “Because there’s a possibility that I was gonna do the worst-case scenario? What’s the worst-case scenario anyway? I lash out and rat you out to the media?”

Paul looks at her and he keeps so still and so quiet, Carrie’s not sure she’s still awake. He looks like a dream, but not a happy one; not even a scary one or an odd one. Like taken away from life. Haunted. He’s slowly becoming his own ghost.

“Oh my God.” Carrie drops her tea cup to the sofa. It hits the saucer that fell first, then rolls to the floor, shattering itself. Carrie clasps her hands over her mouth, shielding herself from breathing the truth. She whispers it instead, in one name: “Laurie.”

Paul looks at the teacup that he always liked, now broken.


	8. How Water Drowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More News I Carrie.

> _I think… I don’t know, this one’s pretty jumbled. I took a lot of parts from a lot of things I’d done by the time of creation. You know… England, busking across Europe and living under the bridge, being home and not getting any booking, stuff like that._
> 
> _So it doesn’t have anything to do with me? Or am I the whore?_
> 
> _Sometimes I can see the potential, but, no, you’re not the whore, Artie. It’s… It’s a pretty lonely time. I guess I was saying… Even with my company, whichever girl I was with—Kathy, or, at the time of writing, Peggy—it still felt lonely. I… I wanted to go home. I wanted to go back to you._
> 
> _So you called your girlfriends ‘whore’, huh?_

***

What Paul Simon does on his 40th birthday is baking his own birthday cake with his mother in her kitchen. Between having to choose between Carrie or Art or a party filled with people _and_ the two of them, it’s better to take refuge somewhere incredibly low-key. For all he knows, spending birthday with his family is the most sensible thing in the world.

Anyway, his mother’s more than happy to cater his visit. He didn’t tell her he was coming, of course, so she had to cancel her reading club appointment and he had to apologise for that. But she called it “nonsense” and forced him to sit in offputtingly floral armchair, which caused Paul to wince and blurt, “Mom, do you need new chair?”

“Sift the flour first, Paul.” She nudges him, stopping him from dumping the perfectly measured flour sloppily into the batter. She picks up a spatula while sharply watching her son reluctantly picks up a sieve. “So, I watched your show. Your friend sent the recording to me. Good boy, I like him. What’s his name? Nice Jewish boy, tall, fancy nose…”

“Art.”

“No, not that one. The loud one. The one who called me ‘Mom’ and scared your Dad because he called him ‘Daddy’. Horn… Porn… No, that doesn’t sound right. Lorne!” She subtly pushes Paul away from the bowl and folds the batter. “Yes, Lorne. I’ve written a letter to thank him. Probably you can take it to him, so I don’t have to waste one good stamp? Tell him that I also put the photo that he wanted.”

Paul furrows his eyebrows suspiciously. “What photo?”

“Photo of you, dear. You and Art, when you were kids.”

“Mom! No!” He groans loudly. “Nooooo! He’s gonna do weird things with it. Probably make voodoo dolls or something with my head and Artie’s cut-off and stuck to stuffed burlap sacks with needles…”

She laughs. “No! He’s not gonna do that. He’s a nice kid. No, Paul. He’s getting the photo, and you sure are saving him one slice of this birthday cake. He said he’s making a little scrapbook? Or… a billboard. No, I convinced him that you’re gonna flip if he does that, so a scrapbook.” She smiles and playfully elbows Paul. “He’s a big fan of you two.”

Paul rolls his eyes. “I know, Mom. He’d been screaming our ears off about reunion and things. _Believe_ me, I know.”

“Well, maybe he’s on to something, don’t you think?” She folds the batter one last time and lets it drop freely from the spatula, creating thick and airy drizzle that rests in the bowl. “Alright, this is done. Get the pan for me, darling. Thank you. Anyway,” Mrs. Simon fills the round pan carefully, “I invited Rose to watch with me. Artie’s mom? Oh, and she was very proud of you two. She cried! In my couch! The woman can snot!”

“Oh.” Paul smiles. She was there. They’re both watching, like mothers should, in such occasion. Paul’s pretty sure she’s crying from entirely different thing, Mrs. Garfunkel. The snot thing, he doesn’t need to know.

His mother taps the pan, bursting the bubbles. Paul opens the oven door for her and she ducks, pushing the cake inside. Mrs. Simon sighs and takes off the oven mitt, then smiles again at Paul. “I know you’re happy doing things on your own, Paul, but I’m also happy to see the two of you making up again. Oh, you boys get your mothers all worried! But I told Rose, no, Rose, even if they’re fighting, it won’t last. They can’t hate each other—they just can’t! I say, no, because when two people are twirled into one like that, they just can’t get undone. You two aren’t just best friends, you’re soulmates.”

“Uh,” he mumbles, uneasily, “did Mrs. Garfunkel say anything?”

“Nah, she just cried and cried and nodded. Like mother like son, I said. Then she tried to kick me! The gall in that girl!” She laughs loudly, her head’s thrown back happily. Yeah, she probably doesn’t know.

Paul clears his throat, looking down. “So, what’s that about soulmate thing?” He smiles nervously. “You don’t think that about me and Carrie?”

“Oh, don’t do that. You know I love that small girl. Now, get me that cream cheese. You want it with cream cheese, right?”

“And…”

“And strawberries, I know. You know it's a weird time to look for strawberries, right? You're lucky we managed this. Get me those from the fridge, love.” Paul quickly dashes to the fridge, plucking the two items off the shelves. Mrs. Simon cleans the beaters. “You know, honey, you can love someone and even marry them, but your soulmate might still be someone else. It’s not always about this… _romantic_ kind of love. Sometimes it’s just about two people who just can’t get rid of one another, even when you’ve wounded each other.”

Paul smiles a little. “Speaking like a poet, Mom.”

“Well, you didn’t get The Boxer from the man who only speaks in grunts, sweetheart.” She drops the block of cream cheese into the dried bowl, then rests her hands on the countertop. She looks at Paul intently, smiling. “You seemed very happy to sing with him again. So I said to Rose, that’s what it is. That’s two people who are destined to be together. If they’d just stop being so stupid about it all, things might’ve worked out. But I guess they’re way too far into their mess to be salvaged.”

Paul laughs again. “Yeah, that’s us.” He sighs. “There’s just… too much time when it’s more tiring than happy. I like Artie, but, I don’t know. It becomes too much work to be with him, sometimes.”

She nods. “But do you want to be with him?”

Paul shrugs.

“Ah, I know that shrug. That shrug means ‘yes, but I’m too stubborn to say yes’.” She grins when Paul breaks into laughter. “Well, honey, I’m not gonna tell you to keep on trying. You’re a grown-up, you can assess your own situation now. I just…” She stops. She leaves the bowl and approaches Paul, placing her hand on his, gently. His mother’s hand is like his—calloused, scratched-up. Struggling. Alone. “I just want you to be happy, Paul.”

“I’m happy.” Paul answers way too quickly, and he can’t say that he’s not unsure. He’s happy, probably. He spent last year being incredibly miserable, seeing his analyst more than his own reflection, what with his career setbacks, another series of breaking up with Carrie _after_ leaving Art for her… And now, things are breaking down again, but at least Carrie is not yelling at him, or even breaking up with him—surprisingly—yet, probably. There’s still chance to make this work. To make this all work. Yeah, he’s relatively happy.

“Paul,” she coaxes. “You know, just because you have everything, doesn’t mean you have to be happy.”

He lifts an eyebrow.

She smiles, nodding. “You don’t have to tell people that you’re happy when you’re not. That doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful. Everyone’s allowed to be unhappy. You should never try to make other people feel comforted by lying to them about how you feel.”

Paul grins. “You’re better than my analyst.”

“I was a teacher, darling. And I’m your Mom. Now, chop those strawberries for me, and I’ll get you that letter so you won’t forget.” Paul jumps out of his seat and quickly sets to do the task. His mother slides to the corridor, slipping into wherever she’s keeping her letter in. He idly slices the red fruits off, thinking of nothing but how meditative this whole cooking thing kinda feels. He should probably do this more often.

The return of his mother is marked with loud stomping and yowling because she bumps into something. His mother is not the most graceful woman in the world. _Probably_ a little like Carrie—they both move like bull; just straight ahead, expecting things to move aside for them. They’re funny like that.

She pops out of the door with a big smile, an ivory envelope waved in her hand. She trots quickly towards Paul, shoots a slightly unapproving glare at the mess he made on chopping board, then takes out a piece of photograph out of the envelope, holding it out to Paul, who stares at it as if he’s looking at a butterfly through a glass. Dead and beautiful, an image of him and Artie against brick walls. He looked like he’s about to run, and Art—Art was perfect—grinning, beaming, even through the black and white photograph, his eyes still pierce and bursting with its blue-green colour. His mother giggles and points at Art. “You know, whenever Rose and I met to watch you two, I always thought, well, Paul sure touched him a lot these days. Remember when you were kids and he was always the one clinging to you? He’s a scared kid, wasn’t he?”

“Well, he was scared of me, so I’ll say yes,” Paul laughs. He tilts his head, studying the picture again, and smiles. Paul rests his head on his mother’s shoulder. “I fought so hard for him, didn’t I?”

She leans her head against his. “It’s never a battle, honey.”

***

> _You’re thinking about me in pigtails?_
> 
> _Good fuck, no. No! It’s not that literal. It’s a follow-up to the word ‘play’. I was saying that it’s not an invitation to ‘play’ as in ‘children game’ sort of play. Because, you know, children wore their hair in pigtails? So that’s the literal meaning of play, and the, uh, singer was saying that, uh, it’s_ not _that kind of play but, you know. ‘Play’ play._
> 
> _Oh. ‘_ Play’ _play. So this is about you being downright horny, right?_
> 
> _Yep, that’s me. Downright horny._

***

They clink the beer bottles.

Under the cold, damp night of early November, Paul and Artie sit on the bench in Central Park. Art had so little to do for quite a while, so he already found out which bench is exactly—or at least, approximately—equal number of steps between his apartment and Paul’s. Then he shifts the calculation because his steps are wider, so it’s gotta be fairer if it’s a little closer to Paul’s.

They sit there and drink, watching the leaves and whatever they can see from the bench. “Did you know that the Bow Bridge is the second oldest cast iron bridge anywhere in the US?” Art says, after half the bottle is stored in his belly. “And that my favourite part in the park is Gapstow Bridge?”

“I know.” Paul takes another small sip. “About your favourite part, not the Bow Bridge. Who cares about the history, you dork? Anyway,” he lifts the beer bottle again, “happy birthday, old man.”

Art laughs. “You’re older than me, weirdo.”

He listens to Paul’s laughter rolling out of his tongue, filling the air with bitterness. He wasn’t there in his birthday. No one was. He just returned home in the morning to a panicky Lorne who’d secretly set up a mountain of gifts in his living room, and tried to shove the sobbing man away from his clean blazer. Art received the sobbing phone call later that day, along with a series of squealing about a certain photograph. He’s gonna change his phone number.

Art slides a little closer. He doesn’t dare to be too close, out in the open like this, but this small movement puts him several centimetres closer to Paul and that’s almost enough. “Do you remember that, back then, we always refused to do recording on either of our birthdays?”

Paul chuckles a little. “Yeah. Yeah, we would go for a birthday fuck.”

Art clears his throat and looks down. “I always liked those.”

Paul lifts an eyebrow, tilting his head and gives him a little smile. “Your birthday’s still young,” he said. It’s true, because they’re sneaking to the park at twilight. Waiting for the sunrise of the day that marks Art’s fourth decade living in the world, the concept was. Paul leans back, absently drinking the rest of his beer. “Wouldn’t it be nice to fuck under the stars? Or to the rising sun?”

Art snickers nervously. He sounds like he did when he was a kid and Paul suggested something unnecessarily nasty that he knew they’re eventually gonna commit together. “Well, I bet it is, but unless you’re interested in being drowned in the river, we’re not gonna do that.”

Paul smiles and looks at Art, every second provides him more amusement than before because Art’s visibly jittery in temptation. He jumps to his feet and dumps the empty bottle to the bin. “Right. We’re doing it on top of Gapstow Bridge. Follow me.”

“Paul…”

“Come on!” He cocks his head in beckoning motion. “This is the perfect hour. Even hobos are asleep. Get off your ass, grandpa!”

Paul thinks the highlight of Central Park is Glen Span Arch because it’s creepy and murky and always cold. But it’s Art’s birthday, so he gets to choose which sucky location he’d like to be fucked on. Paul jogs to the bridge, enjoying the breeze on his face, feeling slightly like a child, or a dog. Art is tottering behind, following him with continuous panicky hush that goes “Paul, get back here!” or “Paul, you’re not serious, are you?” Paul grins to himself. Out of all the decades they’d spent together, when was he ever not serious about mischief in public spaces?

He kisses Art in the middle of the bridge when the sky is turning deep purple. Art feels the cold beneath his back, but his senses are stolen from him—to the heavens where golden stars make secretive wink at the two lovers and their twilight rendezvous, to the friction on his skin that’s hot enough to spark a flame and burn him inside out, to the sounds of the drumming of his heart and rustling wind that escapes Paul’s mouth. The autumn is at its peak in the park; the blushing of the leaves gives orange and vermillion tints against the gentle darkness of the sky. As it turns brighter to the rising of the sun, Art believes that this must be the most beautiful birthday gift he’d ever had.

“My mother said I was supposed to be born around this time too, you know? Well, after you, actually.” Paul punches his shoe for no reason. They’re crouching together against the side of the bridge, staring at the sky, now frosty blue. Art’s quiet, listening. “She said, _oh, I should’ve seen this coming. Even as a foetus, you have no patience. Flash, bam, excuse me Mom, I gotta get out of here._ Yeah, her exact words. Not really, but you get the picture.”

Art laughs weakly. “I'm assuming you have a point with all this dirty talk?”

Paul nods, still staring at the cobblestones beneath his shoes. It’s getting too cold for comfort now. He has to pee sometimes soon. “What I’m saying is, I didn’t want you to be alone.” He swings his body upwards, landing on his feet like a nimble squirrel. He looks at Art, hugging his knees, fearing everything but dropping temperature. “Even then, I couldn’t allow you to live without me.” He exhales softly. “It’s a scary world, and you shouldn’t be alone. Not even for a second.”

Art smiles softly at him, his head leaning against the dirty wall. “Why are you being sweet?”

“I’m not. I’m being a possessive asshole I was born to be.” He stares at Art quietly, tilting his head. "You only think I'm being nice when I'm being mean."

***

> _You know this one, right?_
> 
> _Yeah, I know. Basically Paul Simon’s biggest love ballad to Artie Garfunkel._
> 
> _Yeah, that sums it up._
> 
> _Hey, do you remember Dylan visiting when we were recording that ‘here I am’ part? God, it must’ve freaked him out, walking in on two guys screaming in the studio._
> 
> _It must’ve freaked him out more when you burst out crying and ran out of the studio._
> 
> _Yeah, let’s not talk about that…_
> 
> _I went to Joan’s sometimes ago, for a party. I saw this book with paintings… Anyway, I’m writing a song on it. You wanna hear it when it’s done?_
> 
> _Yeah, of course. Hey, I heard you haven’t been writing in a while._
> 
> _Oh, yeah, I’m back on now. Working on an album, actually._
> 
> _That’s great. You’re writing songs about me again?_
> 
> _All songs are about you._

***

“I don’t think this is working out.”

Art frowns and drops his pencil. “What do you mean it’s not working out? The harmony?”

Paul stares at the empty chair near Art, but refuses his impulse to sit. No, he needs to be above Art to say this. He needs to be firm. “Everything. No, I just don’t think it’s working out. Yeah, I would’ve preferred if you rework the harmony, but, generally, I just don’t think it’s working.” He gives in. He drops himself on that chair, sighing in frustration. This is too difficult to handle standing up. “Art, I just think that this material is too personal for me. I mean, it’s everything _I’_ ve been through. The part of my life without you in it, you know? It’s _my_ experience, so.” He shrugs. “I just… I don’t know. I don’t feel it’s right.”

“Oh.” Art frowns again, slightly more confused than he was before. It wasn’t too personal when they started, why is it too personal now? “Look,” he starts calmly, “these aren't the events of my life,”—they technically aren’t, but, isn’t every song’s supposed to be about Art? So it’s, at least part of it, events of _his_ life, too, isn’t it? Or is it because he’s the subject matter, he’s not supposed to sing about it?—"but I understand the emotions you're dealing with. I understand what it is to be in love, to be in pain, to feel joy. I'm a singer. I'm able to interpret. That's what I do.”

Paul pouts and pauses for a while. “All right. Let's try. However, I have to produce this because it's not like it was in the 60’s. I know what I want to say musically. So if that's all right with you, and I can have the decision on how to produce the tracks, then we can try.”

Art looks at him for a very long time, studying, observing, trying to figure out what recently happened that got him so worked up. No, it’s not even recent. Paul had been antsy for a while. Since the morning after the concert. Maybe he’s reconsidering his offer to get Art into this project, it could really be it. Art clears his throat. “Well, Paul, you're dampening my enthusiasm because of your ambivalence.”

Paul stares back at him blankly.

***

> _Why_ didn’t _you write me?_
> 
> _I’m sorry, okay? Okay, you wanna hear the story? It’s so stupid, even_ I’m _embarrassed to tell it._
> 
> _So, usual Garfunkel deal, then. Go on, tell me another one of your embarrassing tales._
> 
> _Okay, so you know when we were kids and we went to different camps? Yeah, there’s this one time when it took you_ weeks _to write me…_
> 
> _Oh God,_ that? _You’re getting back at me on_ that?
> 
> _Hey, you know I’m not one to let things go._

***

Carrie comes to hug Paul. That’s the main reason of her visit, really. She has ‘celebrating the finalisation of her movie’, ‘missing her boyfriend’, et cetera, et cetera to back it up, but hugging Paul is pretty much there on top of the list. So on his first day in Sweden, Paul Simon becomes a koala bear.

“Chocolates would be nice right now,” Carrie sighs. She snuggles into Paul, completely ignoring the lovely summer outside their windows. “I should’ve followed you to Switzerland. That one’s after this, right?” Paul nods, having pretty much memorised his whole schedule for the next few weeks. Carrie looks up to Paul, her eyebrows knitted. “What’s very Swedish? You know… Swiss chocolates, Swiss army knives… What’s Swedish?”

“Hmmm… Pickled herrings?”

“Kill me instead.”

Paul giggles and tightens his arms around Carrie. The sun is finally setting now, and it’s way too late in the evening for it to do that. It plays tricks to his mind when the sun does that—falling asleep at 10 PM like a teenager on a school night. It’s supposed to be on the other side of the world by dinner time—that’s the proper way to go. But, no, Swedish sun plays by its own rule.

“So.” Carrie raps her hands on Paul’s chest. “How are things with him?”

Paul doesn’t immediately reply—not only because it’s Carrie he’s talking to, but because a _lot_ had been happening. They spent days in studio fighting instead of recording, and while Art initially had tried to talk to Paul about his blow-off, he eventually gave up and went full-on offense the next time the fight unfolded. Yes, they’ve hung out, had sex, had fun… but things haven’t been exactly great. Just the way Paul intended.

“Oh, he doesn’t talk much since we began the trip. I think he’s upset at me about the album… That’s fine. In fact, when we arrived in Japan,” Paul mutters with a frown, “he walked across the country for two whole weeks. Yeah, he’s _that_ upset.”

“ _What?_ ” Carrie laughs in disbelief. “He didn’t get mobbed or lost and wind up in a fisherman’s boat or something? How did he do that?”

Paul shrugs and chuckles. “I don’t know! You’d think someone would’ve stopped him, but he’s just gone like a ninja and no one’s heard of him until he decided to show up. It’s like being in a spy movie. Geez, really. Going through such length to avoid me, that’s so Artie.”

Carrie giggles. She muffles herself onto Paul’s chest until the laughter dies down, then she withdraws to breathe and say, “What about… the other stuff? Have you two been… You know. In the tour? Or, I don’t need to know that, sorry. I mean…” She clears her throat. “Did you finally tell him that I know?” Paul shakes his head. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Carrie,” he sighs, “I don’t want him to hate you.”

Carrie diverts her eyes. She grips on Paul’s shirt, trying to hide in it. She knows none of this is fair. Not for her, whose boyfriend’s boyfriend is probably the love of his life. Not for him, whose boyfriend’s girlfriend _can_ be his girlfriend anywhere they go. She dislikes him in a certain degree, obviously. And he definitely dislikes her, too, in a way. Shared knowledge might bring unwanted conversation that might deepen the resentment. Probably Paul’s right not to tell him.

“I didn’t tell Penny either,” she said. “I don’t know why.”

Paul smiles and kisses the tip of her nose. “You’re protecting both of them, that’s why. And me.” She grins widely. “Look at that. Superhero on the screen, _and_ in real life. Boy, if 8-year-old Paul knew that one of these days he’d get to date one of you, he’d go nuts.”

“Oh, you’re saying you _weren’t_ nuts?” She giggles into Paul’s kissing mouth, not stopping until she forgot who she’s laughing at, then stays quiet when she remembers it—her insane boyfriend. Her hands travel through him, feeling the taut muscles in his forearm, the heat from the skin behind his neck, the twitching shoulder blades, the bumps of his ribs. She laces her fingers through his, then stops.

For the first time in her life, she notices the ring.

“Paul,” she whispered, her lips still glued to his, her fingers rubbing the silent metal band, “what’s this ring?”

Paul breaks off the kiss. Then she knows. Her face hardens and she recoils.

“I’m getting that, too.”

***

> _It kinda makes sense now, Bye Bye Love. You’re saying goodbye to me?_
> 
> _I thought_ you _wanted to say goodbye to me._
> 
> _What? No! I was upset that you were married, but I didn’t wanna leave you._
> 
> _Yeah, alright, I was stupid. I made assumptions, then I made decisions without consulting the other party._
> 
> _I know. I’m not angry. You’re just being you. That’s what you do. … Paul, just… try to remember? I never want to say goodbye. I will never want to say goodbye._

***

“Artie, you’re being unreasonable.”

“No, Paul, you’re being unbearable.” Art slams his notebook and his pencil on the desk, then slams himself into the chair, groaning angrily. It’s been _months_ since they decided to do this album, and failing. No, not even months—over a _year._ That can’t be right. Even with 50 hours they threw to get Punky’s Dilemma right, or 100 hours they took to tinker The Boxer into perfection, _none_ of their albums had ever required process this long. “Every time I show up with an idea, you turn it down. It’s just typical you, I get it, but it’s not like you’re offering solution or anything. No! You just want to control everything and put me aside. Again, typical you. But you’re being irrationally difficult, and you’re not telling me why!”

Art exhales heavily and pats his pockets, looking for cigarettes. “The only reason why I insisted on taking the music outside and write the harmony after a walk is because I can’t think with you breathing down my neck! Seriously, Paul, won’t you please just tell me what’s going on here? Please?”

“I’m not being difficult. I’m refusing the harmony because it’s not the right one. You can’t just write the wrong harmony to my songs.” Paul steps in and snatches the lighter out of Art’s hand. “And I _beg_ you, again _, stop smoking,_ Artie. You’re damaging your vocal cords.”

“Like you care.” Art plucks cigarette out of his lips and hurtles it away, upset.

“Of course, I care. If you’re gonna be in this record with me, I _should_ care.” Paul sighs, wiping his hands over his face. “Okay, look, I’m not looking for a fight…”

Art frowns and stares at him carefully. “Seems like you are.”

Paul tenses up where he stands. Art is hitting all the points—everything he said is true. This is a deliberate attempt at sabotage, and he knows it. Art probably knows it too, but without sensible reason in his knowledge, he can’t make informed decision and he refuses to do so. Typical Art, and Paul’s taking advantage of it.

They’ve recorded several songs in between the tours. They’re heading towards the final leg now, and venturing across US is something they used to enjoy to a certain degree. Art reminisced how they would sometimes just drive their own car to the next city, taking advantage of the schedule to see what’s what. Coming home a well-travelled man, he said. He liked that. But things had been spiralling down since Central Park concert. Art’s not sure why, and Paul had been all clamming up. It’s been a miserable tour, and it’s been a miserable studio recording.

As usual, Paul decided to stop talking and he retreats into the furthest chair in the room, sulking. He picks up his guitar and sits there, picking on the strings with laser-focused look on his face. It’s always difficult to read Paul when he does that. Is he really detached from the arguments already? That soon and that easily?

Art decided to suck it up today. So he stands up and takes careful steps towards Paul, dragging a chair with him. Paul only looks up briefly, so Art sits down. “I haven’t heard that one before,” he said softly, trying to keep disruption to the minimum. “Is this a new song?”

“Yeah, I wrote it after I saw my Mom,” he mumbled. “You know, my last birthday? She got me to take a nap and she played her harp to get me to sleep.”

“God, what an angel. Except for that time when she gave Lorne our photo.” Art straightens his back a little when he saw a small smile tugging on Paul’s lips. “What’s it called?”

“Hearts and Boners.”

“What, seriously?”

Paul laughs and shakes his head. “No, jackass. That’s not gonna get past the execs. It’s, uh, Hearts and Bones. I’m almost final with everything. You can sit and listen.”

Art nods and keeps quiet. Paul begins again from the top, starting with soft and clear strings that’s probably constructed out of reminiscence of his mother’s harp, then he sings the first verse gently, almost like a lullaby. Art leans his head to the fold of his arms, staring up at Paul sleepily.

“Paul?” he whispered, stopping Paul at the edge of his song. “Please let me try to make this work.”

***

> _No, no, I get this song._
> 
> _Good. If you don’t, I’m sending you to bedlam._
> 
> _I thought you said to the press that you don’t write about yourself. And aren’t you supposed to write absurd things to obscure the real meanings?_
> 
> _If it’s obscure enough for the subject matter, it’s obscure enough. And, anyway, no one really writes about anything outside themselves, so don’t eat up what I told to the press. One’s stories will always mingle even in their most obscure pieces._
> 
> _Right on, Shakespeare._
> 
> _You know, people said that Shakespeare was at least bisexual. Some scholars observed that some of his sonnets were probably created in exaltation of a certain young man, a.k.a. “the master-mistress of my passion”. God, what a prick._
> 
> _Yeah, sentence endings like that is exactly why I always forgot that you were a literature student._
> 
> _Can you imagine? If hundreds of years from now our songs still exist, people might look into it and just go, “Huh. Paul Simon’s definitely gay.”_
> 
> _And who’s he exalting, o children scholars from the future?_
> 
> _Oh, it’s his young love besides him, for whom he’d committed a crime, broken the law._

***

It makes sense. If he gets to have that but she doesn’t, it means he’d chosen who he wants to be with. It’s childish logic, of course, but there’s truth in it. Sure, perhaps Paul didn’t do it with knowledge of Carrie in his youth, and now his thoughts on marriage had been clouded by the horror of his first marriage… But she’s not Peggy. She’s not Art. She’s Carrie, and why can’t he love her the way she is?

“I _do_ ” is the repeated response, but it doesn’t make any comfort. Perhaps it’s always been the truth, but its meaning is reducing by every repetition. Carrie wants to be loved in an exact way—everyone does. Paul has only abstract ideas.

“Paul, I’m pregnant.”

Carrie doesn’t want to say that. She doesn’t want this to be the only reason why they’re together. She doesn’t want her baby to be the nail in the coffin, but she never gets the chance to say all that because Paul is giggling in the couch. Carrie frowns and lets a slow smirk bloom on her face. “Are you alright there, Simon?”

Paul giggles for several more seconds before clamping his mouth with his hand and nods. “Sorry. Yeah. You, Fisher? Sorry. This also happened with Harper. I just giggled uncontrollably, and… Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Paul leaps to his feet and envelopes Carrie in his arms. He still giggles behind her shoulder, so she giggles along. “I should call my Mom and tell the news.”

Carrie laughs. “Slow your roll there, bar mitzvah boy. Let’s keep the news to ourselves first. God, we _just_ got back together again. Let's slow down a bit.” Carrie pulls him closer, kissing his neck and whimpers softly. “I thought you’d freak out. But you’re not, are you? You’re excited about this?”

“Yeah, I am! Why would I freak out? I mean, are you? Are you freaking out? We never talked about kids before, should we talk about it now? Is it too late? Yes, it’s too late. So, are you? Are you freaking out?”

Carrie grins broadly. “Yeah, I’m freaking out. Because you’re raining me with questions like bullet trains there, Papa.”

“Oh, I like that. I never get that. We should work on that.”

“No more Daddy?”

“NO MORE DADDY! Well, except for Harper.”

Carrie narrows her eyes and grins. “Who else calls you Daddy?” From the way Paul blushes and splutters, Carrie can already guess the answer, so she just shakes her head and stifle another giggle. “God, I don’t wanna know what you two do behind closed doors. And, speaking of him…”

Carrie clears her throat and sets herself free from Paul, walking away slowly, making distance. “Listen, I’ve been trying to be very cool about this… And actually, I’m not really sure it’s a very difficult attempt, you know? But the bottom line is… Look, I don’t want this to force you into doing anything, but…” She looks at the floor and exhales silently, then lifts her face to Paul. “I’m not saying that you have to choose between me and him. Not ever. I’m not gonna be a choice. And I have no doubt that you’re gonna be a great father, you’re gonna be a great partner… just… I don’t know. I want so, so much less stress when I’m going through this, and after. So, just…” She shrugs. “I don’t know if there’s anything to do, but if you can come up with something…”

“Carrie, you’re carrying my baby,” Paul stops her. She lets out a shaky sigh, her face worried. “You get to ask me anything you want. Anything.”

Carrie tilts her head, holding back her tears. “Really?”

Paul nods. “Yeah, really. You’re, like, two people I love the most in the world right now. So it’s really just math. Also, I get to name the baby if it’s a girl.”

“I’m gonna murder you.”

“Yes, but will you still name her Lulu?”

Carrie laughs. “Alright, but if it’s a boy, I get to name him Simon. Yeah. You think I didn’t see what you did there with Harper? Nuh-uh. This one’s gonna be Simon Fisher, or you doom him into Simon Simon and have your son hating you for the rest of your life. Your choice.”

Paul narrows his eyes. “Fine, but Lulu Simon.”

“Done.” Carrie bows proudly. “And that’s how you do it. Paul Simon, you’ve met your match.”

“I sure have,” he replies sourly, but then breaks into a laughter, and Carrie joins him. But he stops abruptly and coughs a little and say, “And I’ll talk to him.” Carrie straightens her body, inhaling sharply in anticipation. “I’ll talk to him. Just give me some time.”

Carrie slowly puts her arms around herself, pondering. “But,” she said softly, “are you really okay with it?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “He is, first and foremost, my best friend.”

Carrie giggles weakly. “Don’t tell Lorne that.”

“And do you remember that time in Sweden? Before I force-fed you pickled herring and you punched my guts.” Carrie grins, clearly thinking of the incident instead of the requested memory. Paul smiles. “I’ll think about that, too.”

Her voice breaks into whisper. Carrie clears her throat and nods. “Take as much time as you need.”

Paul looks to his feet and thinks of all the things he’d been putting in motion for months now. No, he doesn’t need too much more time.

So, not a week later, Paul takes his phone and makes a call to the chrysanthemum-headed idiot who’s doing whatever in New England. He waits. The ringing on the other end is ringing, too, in his head. Paul closes his eyes and presses his forehead on the desk.

“Hello?”

“Artie, it’s me.”

He can picture Art lighting up in his room. “Hey, Paul.” It translates in his voice. His voice sparkles when his eyes do, too. “What’s up?”

“Listen, I’m sorry about this.” Paul twirls the cable between his fingers. He bumps his head against the desk. “Artie, I decided that I can’t do the album together after all, so I’m gonna wipe out all your tapes.”

“Oh.”

“Also, I’m marrying Carrie on Tuesday. Wanna come to the wedding?”

***

> _Wait, that’s all? That’s the whole discography?_
> 
> _Artie, we only made 5 albums._
> 
> _Right. Okay. Can we start over?_


	9. How I Love You, Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The princess bride.

The problem with Artie is, he just doesn’t know when to stop, or he stops when he’s not supposed to. He never gets these things right. And Paul should’ve known—or at least, he should’ve remembered. That way, he wouldn’t have to spend nearly two years trying to get Art to stop loving him.

“You really never get the grip of this, huh?”

The voice startles him, and Paul turns around to find that stupid dandelion head walking towards him. Art takes a hold of Paul’s undone bowtie, swiftly pulling it into shape. Paul thinks about saying something about how he doesn’t have to do that, but he’s not really one for wasting his breath on hopeless cause.

“So,” Art smiles a little. “This is why you’d been sabotaging the recording, huh?”

Paul scoffs. “What, you’re saying that this is premeditated? How dare you.”

“Well, most weddings _are_ premeditated, so, yes, I dare.” Art pats the neat bowtie a few times, then steps back to admire his work. It’s the closest thing to symmetrical bowtie anyone could ever get, and he thinks he earns the right to praise himself. But then he remembers what the bowtie is for, and he puts his gaze down to the floor.

Then he lifts his face again.

“Paul, I’m happy that you’re marrying Carrie," he declares. Then he starts rambling because Art is Art and Art can rarely help himself. "I mean, sure, the proposal could’ve been better. And the invitation could be less crude. You could also benefit from taking time to sort through floral decorations… I mean, come on, tiger lilies? And the colour scheme clearly has no coordination whatsoever, what a mess! Anyway, what I’m saying is…”

“That you’re gay, you’re definitely, definitely gay?”

“Big talk from a munchkin rabbit.” Art grins and Paul giggles. He tries again. “What I’m saying is, you’re finally marrying someone you love, and loves you, and not confused about you or why you’re marrying them. So I’m hoping this is it for you. And for your wedding gift… because I don’t actually have a wedding gift… I mean, _who_ gets married _5 days_ after the proposal? Okay, back to what I was saying. For your wedding gift, I’m going to give you a peace of mind.” Art lets out a long exhale, relieving himself from the nerves. “That means, I’m going to be your friend. A proper one. As of today, I’m just a friend who really cares about you, and therefore puts your happiness above all else. Like Lorne. Only less crazy.”

He forces a smile, regretting that it can’t come out a little more naturally. But he has to. He has to go on, because this is the only thing there is to do. Art takes a deep breath and bites back his sobs. “That would work, right? You will still have both of us, and I can still love you. I’m, first and foremost, your best friend, after all. Let me continue to be so.” He tucks a strand of hair behind Paul’s ear and nods. “This is how I love you.”

Paul opens his mouth, but stops at the sound of loud sobbing on the doorway. He cranes his head through Art, who’s slightly rotating to see the source of the noise, and finds Carrie, leaning on the doorpost, large drops of tears dripping through her fingers and falls on the floor. Art begins to say her name, but Carrie had quickly cut the distance between them and throws her arms around Art’s neck, sobbing into his chest.

This shouldn’t have happened, she knows. And she knows that this is her wedding and she shouldn't have ruined her make-up by crying on another man's suit, but she simply can't help it. When someone loves another that much, that being with them is more important than having them, nothing should stand between them. Not laws of men, not a loving woman, nothing. And yet, here they are, bound to what the world wants them to be, to what the world forced into them, and here he stands as the martyr. It’s not her fault. It’s not his fault. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just the way of the world, and that’s not fair. “Thank you,” she whispers, then sobs once more, choking on air and coughs loudly. She places her hand delicately on Art’s cheek, her smile quivering. “I love you.”

Art frowns slightly. “Not in front of your husband-to-be, Carrie, geez, be discreet. But we’re firm on eloping at 8, yes?”

Carrie laughs and pounds her little fists on Art’s chest. She wiggles her eyebrows at Paul. “He’s driving a hard bargain there, Simon. I like the idea of having a kid who can reach the top shelves. How ‘bout that? Carrie Garfunkel. No, no. Arthur Fisher. Definitely.”

Paul chuckles. “Yeah, I’m willing to consider any offer for future conception, but that one is mine.”

“Whoa, wait.” Art shakes Carrie gently. “You’re pregnant?” She grins and nods. Art twirls to Paul. “Is that why you two get hitched? Are you hormonal and decided that it's best to ruin my tie instead of Paul's just now? Oh my God, congratulations! Listen, Paul, don’t tell your Mom today because she’s a bit traditional. Wait until after the honeymoon, alright? Also, don’t tell Lorne because he’s gonna try naming her. Or him. Do you know yet? Paul or Paula? Lorne or Lorna?”

“Artie, you are officially banned from the wedding.”

“Okay, but if it’s a boy, will you name him after me?”

Carrie giggles and tiptoes to smack Art on the head. “No. I’ve already won this argument, I’m _not_ taking any more proposal. Now shut your mouth about the baby, or spend the wedding in your bedroom at home without dinner.”

Art rolls his eyes. “Tough Mom. Good luck growing up, little Arthur.” He kisses Carrie on the cheek. “I’ll get to Lorne’s, he probably has a spare tie. No, Paul, your ties are ugly. Seriously, Carrie, what did you see in him? Immaculate fashion sense? I don't think so. Anyway. See you at the wedding. And, really, congratulations. For everything. The marriage and the, uh, Arthur Simon. Or Arthur Fisher. Or Arthur Simon-Fisher? Fisher-Simon? Garfunkel. Name him Garfunkel.”

"Artie, get lost before I break my guitar on your head."

Art grins and giggles, then nods and starts to walk past Carrie. Paul watches as he sways a little unsteadily. It's not unusual for Art to be without balance, but from the way he's rambling in almost Lorne-like fashion, it seems like he's either incredibly wrecked or pretty much drunk already. No one can blame him, really. So Paul keeps quiet. But Carrie decided to stop him and tug on his sleeve. Art stops, almost tripping on his own feet, and turns to raise a questioning eyebrow to Carrie. She chews on her lip, hesitating. “Um, Artie,” she throws a little look at Paul, who’s waiting with an equally confused look on his face. Carrie turns her face again. “I… wanna invite you to the honeymoon. We can go together. Me and Paul and you and Penny.”

“Whoa.”

“Yeah, whoa.” Paul chimes in from behind Art. “I mean, I don’t mind, because we still have a few tours left and all... but I did not plan on taking him to the rest of the honeymoon, obviously. Why? You need a bumper?”

Carrie shrugs. “No-o... I mean, yeah, it’s gonna be mostly our honeymoon and all… But don’t you think it’s gonna be nice to hang out with our close friends while we’re at it? I mean, they’re gonna know when to give us space, but some things are more fun to do in group, right? Like, sampling a whole menu, for example. Or getting a serial tattoo. My idea of a good honeymoon involves a lot of drinking, but can't now, can I? Probably a good idea to have more heads to brainstorm activity ideas. No, Paul, fucking only counts as one. Besides, when you're done with the concert, Garf is gonna be alone and you're gonna have fun with me, so that's mean and you'd feel bad, and he'd wind up a reluctant third wheel. Let's get the fourth! And also, it’s nice to have a spare room for when we fight.”

Paul laughs. “You think we’re gonna fight in our honeymoon?”

Carrie rolls her eyes. “Excuse me, we’re definitely gonna fight.”

“Yeah, we are. So, I get to sleep with Penny and you get to sleep with Art, huh?”

Carrie laughs. “Well, ain't this a promising wedding? Listen, I think it’s gonna be good for the two of you. You just blew out your recording session together and things seem to be pretty bad right now, from where I'm standing. You two can bury the hatchet and learn to be, you know, just friends again, in the honeymoon. What do you think?”

Paul and Art share a hesitating look, then Paul shrugs. “Well, it’s an idea. I, uh, can’t think of any reason to oppose that. Yeah, I mean, sure. But we get rooms as far away from each other as possible.”

“Whatever you want. You’re the one who’s paying. Art?”

“Um…” he stammers, shooting another panicky look at Paul. For a while, he wonders if Carrie heard what he said to Paul, but then decided that it's not really a weird thing to say, so he brushes it off. Now, this honeymoon idea. This doesn’t sound horrible, but definitely a little weird. It’s definitely gonna be fun to hang out together. And Carrie was right. It’s a good chance to learn how to be friends, since they’re going to be hanging out with their partners and all. It’s gonna be a little bit like a trial run for the future when they have to do it again. But it’s still weird. So he clears his throat and takes the diplomatic approach. “What did Penny say about it?”

“No idea. Came up with this idea just now. I literally just came here to check out whether Paul’s done with the sacrilegious bowtie or not. Yeah, I’m gonna talk to her after this. Also, Paul, I change my mind about the bowtie. Can you do the other tie instead? The white one? Yeah, sorry, Garf. Hey, you think about it, okay? Free holiday! You can walk there if you want, but we might be home by the time you arrive.”

Paul waves his hand to get her attention. “Yeah, can we talk about how I’m supposed to fund the whole holiday for four people again?”

But Carrie just sticks out her tongue and quickly dashes out of the room. Paul stares at her in stunned silence, muttering, “God, she’s a whirlwind.” After a while, he nudges the equally-stunned Art. “So, what do you think? You’re going? I mean, take your time. I know it’s weird. I have no idea what she’s thinking. But she's not wrong, you know? We do have concerts to do. And she _is_ busy. She might think I'll appreciate the company. Maybe. Who knows?”

Art shrugs. “I’ll think about it. It’s kind of a good idea. Free holiday.”

“Ugh, fine, free holiday. But don’t tell Lorne. I don’t want him following us and banging on our door at three in the morning, asking for us to play ‘Kellogg’s cornflakes’ or whatever. I’m gonna kill him. I swear to God, I’m gonna kill him someday. Did you know that he handcrafted a giant wheel with list of countries on it to determine our honeymoon destination? Yeah. I bashed his head on it. Okay, I didn’t, but I scolded him harshly.”

A new head pokes through the doorway, and both of them turn to find Mr. Simon nodding at Art, excusing himself in. Art smiles and gives Paul a quick hug. “Congratulations,” he whispers. “And I’ll tell Lorne to prepare you a drink. We’ll see you in the other room soon.”

He nods at Mr. Simon before leaving, making his way through the well-decorated living room. The couches are moved and chairs are arranged around clothed tables. Dark grey carpet, loads of artificial trees and artificial leaves… This feels more like one of Paul Simon’s home party than a wedding. But it is, technically, a home party, perhaps. And if there’s any sort of party Paul knows how to throw, it’s the one he holds in his own home. And having Lorne around is not that bad either. Their 70's parties in the early era of their friendship are still talked about until now.

Art slips through the laundry room to find Lorne standing silently like a twig in the kitchen, staring woefully at his liquor selection. The groom and friends’ waiting room is supposed to be at Lorne’s, but Eddie’s still in the other room, welcoming the guests and, mostly, calming down his mother. Art’s not really sure he’d enjoy spending this sensitive time with Lorne, who’d definitely bug him with disturbing questions, but he’s not really looking to do idle chitchats so the door number two seems like the lesser evil. Besides, Lorne has some of the best liquors, and Art wouldn't mind going through the wedding without his conscience at all.

“You can still do it, you know,” Lorne said, suddenly. Art jumps a little, startled. Lorne’s still staring at his cabinet and his face is emptier than ever before. Is he high? Or drunk? “You can still run to the parking lot, get into the car, drive to anywhere, start anew. Tell me where you are because I’d wanna visit you, et cetera.”

Neither.

Lorne slams the cabinet door. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go!” Art retreats carefully, unnerved by the loud noise. But then he noticed how Lorne’s face is flushed and his eyes are watery, so he does what he always does when people make face like that: he pulls Lorne into a hug. Art lets him sob on his shoulder, sometimes thinking about whether his suit will be presentable for a wedding after all. But he lets it slide. Someone’s got to cry for them today, and it can’t be either of them. Art pats Lorne gently on the back, and he hears the mumbled yelling through the fibres of his suit. "I've thought of how you could go on. You run away, then you make yourself a home studio, you know? Make songs and send the recording to me and the Holy Ghost, and we'll turn it into an album for you? Then you still get money, and you'll still be together... Everyone's happy, and everyone's together..."

“We’re fine, Lorne.”

“But you’re not supposed to be fine. You’re supposed to be together.” He tightens his grip on Art’s shirt, his crying gets a little stronger. “Please just do it. Please just run. I won’t tell anyone. I’ll help you with anything. Just run.”

Art draws a deep breath—it trembles from his wobbly attempt to hold back his own tears. He leans his head on Lorne’s, exhaling slowly. “I don’t know why you’re very affected by this,” he said, smiling a little. “It really doesn’t involve you.”

“Well, did you cry when you watched The Way We Were, or are you a soulless monster?” Lorne lets go of Art and clears his throat, looking down bashfully, embarrassed of his little breakdown. It takes him several seconds before he finally composes himself. “Alright, I know what we need. Drink! Lots of drinks. Uh, what’s your poison for the night? Let’s see… Fancy wine? Gin? Bourbon? Oh, here’s my top selection. Weird, bitter thing, Czech Becherovka, or as I call her, Becky. This has more spice than a piece of KFC, baby! Now, I also have this fancy thing… from Paul, actually, from your tour to Japan. Here, very fancy sake. You like that, he said? Yeah. And, here’s my final offer, not your daily offer… mead. Very poetic, very ancient, it’ll make you feel like you’re dining in pages of Norse mythology. Also, he liked when you called him ‘honey’, so there you go.”

Art shakes his head with a smile. “Why can’t you just be normal and offer me rum or something?”

“Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum it is, then, Captain Garf. Sit down and get Eddie! Yeah, you can get that wheely chair and roll over to the other apartment and go get Eddie, so there’s an added entertainment value in the task. But do get the Simon one, not the Mister Fisher one. God, that man gives me chill. You’ve seen Elizabeth Taylor? _Have you?_ Look at that woman! He literally married a goddess! That's not human!”

Art doesn’t sit on the wheely chair, but he smiles and turns around to get Eddie. Lorne clears his throat again and calls out to Art.

“I’m still rooting for the two of you,” he said. He smiles weakly, as if it's an excruciating task. It pains Art a little because Lorne never looked like that before. He said, “It’s cruel and unfair, but I will always root for you two. So, in case you’ll ever forget because you’re stupid or too busy pretending that you hate each other or anything…” Lorne nods firmly, “just come to me and I’ll remind you that you two love each other. Forever.”

***

Mr. Simon closes the door behind him. Paul giggles a little because he saw Eddie’s face from between the closing gap, trying to run away from the crowd and was denied asylum as the door slammed shut on his face. He noticed that his father brings two glasses and a bottle of wine. Paul lifts an eyebrow and smirks. “You don’t do that often, so I guess this is gonna be a pretty serious talk, huh? Right, which one of you is dying?”

“You, if you don’t start respecting your father.” Paul laughs, and his father settles himself on an armchair. Harper’s bedroom has its own little living room, so Paul can just sit around and do things in silence while waiting for his son to finish napping. And it’s so much more fun than his living room because it has a lot of toys and cool posters. So Paul sits on the comfortable ottoman that had suffered more ketchup and chocolate milk spilling accidents than he cares to count, and takes the glass from his father. He watches as the burgundy liquid fills the clear container, sparkling under the bright light from the helicopter-shaped light fitting.

“Listen, Paul, I’m not good with talking, sappy or not…”

Paul giggles. “ _Great_ start.”

“God, I should’ve left you in front of that church. Got the box, and everything... Belle talked me out of it. Damn.” He laughs and clinks the glass with Paul’s, retreating with a smile. “I’m trying to say that I’m proud of you. I am. I know I’ve been nagging you about your whole career, what with doing this… _rock_ music thing…”

“Uh-huh. Totally feeling that fatherly love.” Mr. Simon lunges to smack his son on the head, but Paul dodges and snickers uncontrollably. “Da-ad, you’re making me spill my wine.”

“Well, stop sassing me then! Look, what I’m saying is, I know I kept on suggesting you to teach, but that really doesn’t mean that I’m not proud of what you’ve done. Paul, you remember when you were a kid, whenever I took you to see the band, you’d ask me if one day you’d get to do that, too? That’s your dream, Paul. That’s always been your dream. A big little musician in the middle of the crowd, with his band and all the lights? Now you have it all. And teaching… Teaching is _my_ dream. And you can’t live someone else’s dream. That’s why I came back to school. And I, uh, I’m really thankful for that.” He sighs and lifts his glass again, smiling. “It’s saying something when a child becomes a role model to their own parents.”

Paul smiles and nods. “Thank you, Dad.”

“So, with this whole living the dream thing in mind,” he said again, reclining to his seat, “I gotta ask. Is this what you want? What you really want?”

Paul lifts his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“Carrie,” his father replies. He clears his throat, looking down. “Do you really wanna marry her?”

“Whoa.” Paul frowns, pushing the glass to the table. “What are you saying, Dad? You don’t like Carrie or something?”

“No, no. Definitely _not_ saying that. Carrie’s a lovely girl. I assure you, I have nothing against her. I just… I just thought, you know… With Peggy, I mean… It’s not really… _it,_ you know? Oh, God, I’m awful.” Paul giggles a little. Yeah, he definitely did _not_ get The Boxer from his father. Mr. Simon sighs and lets his glass join Paul’s at the table, then he buries his head in his hands. “Paul, I’m asking if you’re really sure that you love her.”

Paul’s frown deepens. He glares at his father. “ _Yes,_ ” he answers, firmly.

“Her, and no one else?”

Paul throws his hands in the air, huffing exasperatedly. “ _Dad._ Seriously. What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about Art.”

Paul clenches his fist. The slight movement sends jolts of pain throughout his body, making him cower and tremble. He wishes he could move his eyes away from his father, but they remain where they are. His father returns the gaze coolly, undisturbed, almost empty. Like his father always looks when the conversation is less than interesting. Paul’s eyebrows twitch. When he speaks, the single word comes out breaking and soft. “Dad?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Look, I’ve seen more of the world than you thought I’ve done, son. I understand that this thing can happen. And it really doesn’t matter. It’s just feelings, it’s just people. You meet them, you get to talk to them, you like talking to them, why is it unfathomable that you eventually like them? Hells, you get people falling in love with horses and... and... refrigerators all the time! This is people! Much easier to comprehend!”

Paul opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His father observes a while, then continues. “All I’m saying is, I’m proud of you, no matter what. And I love you. And this… You don’t have to worry about me with this. If it’s what you want, there’s no way around it. But this… wedding, and everything… I just want to make sure that you’re not doing something you’d regret. So I’m gonna ask you again. Do you love her?”

The room falls silent. Paul can hear the sound of his heart beating like a fight.

“Paul…”

“I love her.” Paul lets out the breath he’d been holding. He unclenches his fists; his fingers are trembling. His heart burns painfully in his chest, but Paul looks sternly at his father and nods. “And you’re right, Dad. I love him. And he loves me. And there’s nothing we can do about it.

“But I’m happy,” he adds. “I’m happy enough to be in love with that guy, and have him love me back. That’s all I can ask for. And you know what, Dad? I’m luckier than most. Because even through all that, I still find someone else I can love equally. I do love Carrie, and I do believe that I have to be with her. We’ve split from time to time, tackled our own demons and each other’s, and it’s really, really not an easy path with her. But I keep on coming back, _she_ keeps on coming back, because it’s love. It’s real.” He shrugs, finally relaxed. “It’s pretty much like I am with Artie, with her. And I believe in what I'm doing right now. I want to be with her.”

His father nods slowly. “Yeah, the hardship is probably similar,” he mumbles. “But is 'equally' enough? Is ‘pretty much’ enough?”

Paul lifts his eyebrows.

Mr. Simon offers him a small smile, then looks down to his shoes. “Well,” he clears his throat, “I guess that’s all there is to say from me. Listen, don’t tell your Mom about this, okay? You know, because she’s a bit traditional, so, best not. I’m not good with these rules and religious things, so probably that’s also why I’m not very bothered with it... But your Mom's pretty stern on all these rules and restrictions, you know?”

“Funny, Artie _just_ said that to me.”

“Ugh, yeah, that blond afro of his makes me sick.” He shudders, then frowns. “You know, I still don’t like that boy.”

Paul grins. “Yeah, why _didn’t_ you ever like him?”

Mr. Simon shrugs in a way that's so much like Paul. “Eh," he said, "fishy character. He’s clingier to you than Eddie. Gives me creep.”

“ _Fishy_ character. Uh-huh.”

“Squiggly.”

“True.”

The father and son share a shy grin, looking down instead of at each other. Paul reaches out to tap the tip of his fingers on his father’s knee, gently. “Dad, thank you. Really. I feel like… I don’t know. Relieved. Very relieved.”

His father nods. He grunts a little, then returns the pat. “I think it’s time that we get out of this room,” he said. Paul scoffs, smiling, and nods. The two of them rise to their feet, and they hug. Paul blinks and thinks back to the morning of his first marriage, with smoked almonds and the pink shirt. Had he known then? How long had he known? It doesn’t matter. That man wraps him in the biggest hug he’d ever received, and he receives him the way he is. Paul can feel his father's breath on his hair, and they embrace each other tighter. “Ready to get this outrageous wedding over with?”

Paul smiles. “Born ready.”

“Yeah, I was there.”

They leave the room arm in arm, Paul thinking a little about the leftover champagne in his son’s bedroom and whether Harper would be nasty enough to steal a sip. Paul quickly looks for the boy and kneels by his side, whispering warnings not to take his grandpa’s bottle on his bedroom desk. “Or if you do, make sure to just have one small sip, okay?" Carrie glares at him and they both giggle. "Okay, that look means no. But we do have cake. You can get two slices, but don't drink and don't tell Mommy, okay?" Harper shrugs and nods. Paul narrows his eyes slightly, noticing how much like his younger self Harper is. He fondly ruffles Harper's hair. "You want to get ready? Go to grandma, okay? Give Carrie a kiss. But not too much, because she's Daddy’s.”

“Aw.” Carrie giggles and she offers her cheek for Harper to kiss. She returns the kiss in multitudes and gives the little boy a lingering hug before he runs towards the crowd, where his grandmother is, ready with secret wraps of candies. Carrie lifts her face to Paul. Her smile is small but her eyes are filled with stars. Paul leans forward and presses their lips together, and Carrie giggles and mutters, with muffled voice, “You’re supposed to wait until they let you kiss the bride.”

“Do people really do that anymore?” Paul smiles and holds her hand, and they part for the last hour before their wedding. Paul scrambles through the door, dragging Eddie with him (Art never did fetch him), to find Lorne and Art already very drunk on Lorne’s suspicious cocktail and decided that it’s best to practice singing Piano Man for Billy Joel, who Lorne just saw through the keyhole. Eddie forces them to drink water until both of them cry on the floor, and Susan comes to slap Lorne. Way too soon, Penny comes to pick up Art, and both Simon brothers eventually consume no alcohol at all. They follow Penny to the wedding with unhappy pouts.

When the morning comes, Art can’t remember a single thing about the wedding. Not the songs they played, not the procession, not the guests, not the food. His memory of last night stops at Lorne’s kitchen and the stared-at liquor cabinet, at the first glass of the caramel-coloured rum, then how he surrendered to the temptation that was fancy clay cup and the milky white sake. The last thing he remembers is how Lorne mentioned that the beverage has a name that translates to ‘cloudy’, and he started singing the song. Yeah, he remembers the singing. That’s why Art has that song playing in his head this morning, when he finds himself under a pile of blankets and Penny and his pillows.

He leaves the bed with sleepy steps and looks out his windows and finds the sky outside incredibly sunny and happy. Just like all the most hurtful days had been before.


	10. How Paradise Descends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The honeymoon(s).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quickie update because deadline is not real (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞  
> It's a bit rushed, but I hope it's fiiiine~ I'll probably review the whole series once it's completed anyway, so let me be lazy for now ;v;  
> (Also, gonna sleep early, so if there's typo/errors, spare me until the new day dawns~)
> 
> \-----
> 
> The timeline in this period is soooooo jumbled, so I'm afraid it's been rather loose with the facts lately. For one, Carrie's pregnancy in this story is leaning on a little speculation spitted out by a certain article instead of referring to the biography(-ies)... but idk, it feels more fun this way, so........... Also, the wedding/honeymoon/concert timeline is very confusing and the references aren't quite agreeing with each other (YES, I DO STILL CHECK REFERENCES, I SWEAR THIS IS ALL AT LEAST INSPIRED BY ARTICLES). The Israel appearance, in one reference, was said to be at the end of September 1983, while in Carrie's biography it's implied to be happening around mid-late October, along with their honeymoon trip to Egypt, etc. So, idk, let's just put aside the actual dates and what's what for real life S&G.
> 
> \-----

Art is ridiculously good at card games, so Paul said no. But because Carrie can’t do anything she’d prefer—which is to say that she’s getting cranky because she can’t drink or do drugs—he eventually relented when there’s nothing else to do. Of course, Carrie had to chirp, “Let’s do a strip poker!” and Paul had to, again, do everything he can to not do the card games. He opened the window and threw the cards to the hurling hurricane that cancelled his latest gig.

“I wonder if we’re gonna have to cancel the rest of the shows,” Paul murmurs. He idly strums on his guitar, letting Carrie break into occasional bursts of Disney songs. Carrie can really do the most charming rendition of Snow White’s _I’m Wishing._ Penny squeals the echo’s part and Art giggles at the skit, and it puts Paul into better mood. He lets go of his guitar and hands it to Art, quietly signalling him to pick the rest of their repertoire. He hasn’t heard Art’s playing in a very long time. “And whether we’re going to have to do a sort of redemption show or something… Should we ask someone?”

Carrie grunts and shoves her hand onto Paul’s mouth, muffling him. “Noooo! No! Mister Fisher, _you_ are going to rejoice. Rejoice! At the hurricane! That brings this work-honeymoon into a full-blown honeymoon! Come on, get psyched. For the first time since we’re married… which isn’t saying much, but it counts… we’re _not_ working. See? You’re not playing guitar and squeaking at the crowd, and I’m not Shakespearing with my screenplay. Nah, nah, Shakespeare’s a dude. Who’s a cool woman one?”

“Virginia Woolf.”

“Ooooof course you go with Woolf.”

Paul squints his eyes at grinning Carrie. “Alright, fine. Mary Shelley. Feel free to pluck my heart and keep it in your drawer when I’m dead.”

“Charming married life, my friends. Promise of death and macabre cabinet, fantastic. Now, if you don’t mind,” Penny claps her hands and wiggles her eyebrows at Art, “as a non-pregnant woman, I have _amazing_ stock of substances waiting to be abused in my suitcase, and the hotel, I believe, has amazing collection of liquors. What do you think, Shirley Temple? Care to join me and let these two actually act like they’re on their honeymoon?”

Art stares blankly and continues plucking the strings to play an old The Mills Brothers that he likes. Then he blinks in surprise and abruptly stops. “Me? I’m… Oh, I’m the Shirley Temple? Wh— Okay, what the hell. Lead the way.”

Penny jumps gleefully and bounces towards the door, waving her hand and blowing kisses to Carrie, who groans and yells envious protests and threatens Paul to shove him out the window if he joins the other room. Paul laughs, reaches out his hand to take the guitar from Art and wishes him a happy high, while Art wishes him a happy real honeymoon _sans_ entourage. That’s when Carrie suddenly perks up and flails to get Art’s attention, then whispers hastily, “Hey, you two are doing alright? Are we forcing this trip on you guys? Is it too soon to do this out-of-town thing?”

Paul adds, also in whisper, “By ‘we’, she means ‘she’, because she’s the one issuing the invitation.”

Art chuckles. “Yeah, this is fine. Penny’s been nice to me.” He nods reassuringly at Carrie, then leaves to catch up with Penny at the door. They link arms and quickly slip out of the Simon-Fisher suite, dealing with the hurricane in relatively less healthy way.

Carrie frowns at the disappearing figures. “I’m not sure if that means good. ‘Penny’s been nice to me’. That’s pretty lukewarm, right?”

“Uh, no, that’s good. That’s Artie’s way of saying ‘we’re having _really_ great sex’. I kinda figured that out when he was in college and said that a lot.”

“Oh.” Carrie grins. “Okay. Good to know. College, huh? No story from high school? Doing it Momma’s way while still living under her roof, huh? His first time was when he's 72?”

Paul laughs. “Actually, I have no idea. We kinda stopped talking after we’re, like, 15? Whatever happened in high school, I assume would’ve happened _after_ that. So, I don’t know. Bet there are stories, Artie’s always been pretty popular.”

“God, I wonder why. I would’ve thrown eggs at him for fun. And at you, too, but because I love you.” She cackled in un-charming way that got Paul to grin and giggle. Carrie drops her head to Paul’s lap, and purrs gently when Paul caresses her hair. “So, what happened then? When you were 15. Why did you stop talking? Was it about a girl, or about a song, or about something stupid like whose baseball team was the best?”

“First of all, the Yankees _is_ the best.” Carrie softly slaps him on the chin, they both laughing. “And, no, it wasn’t because of any of that. We just… had difference in opinions.” About whether it’s fine that Artie kissed him. But Paul isn’t going to say that to his new wife.

“That sounds a lot like you right now,” she commented. Carrie lifts an eyebrow after a moment of observation. “You remember the reason.”

Paul smiles uncomfortably. “Carrie, you’re opening a can of worms.”

Carrie shrugs. “Not afraid of worms. I’m a Fisher. What do you call people who muck about a can of worms to get food? Uh-huh, _fisherman._ And what’s the first six letters of that word? _Fisher._ ”

“Impressive. Truly.” Paul makes sarcastic claps. “The connection. As if the universe itself wills it to be.”

Carrie laughs and slaps him. “Shut up. Tell me.” She pauses. “It’s about you two, wasn’t it? You… Did you break up?”

Paul looks at Carrie confusedly for a while, then sighs. “No, Carrie. Look, can we drop this? I don’t get why you always get me to talk about this thing. I don’t think it’s very pleasant to hear.”

“ _Because,_ Paul,” Carrie swings herself, sitting up and throwing herself to the corner of the sofa. She folds her arms and pouts, “I don’t want to pretend it doesn’t exist. Because it does, and treating it any other way won’t help. But the more I know about this, the more I can understand, and the more I can adapt to it. I listen to these stories and process it, and live it… So, you know. It’s like a bedtime story.”

Paul frowns. “It’s about real people, Carrie. We’re real. This is real. If you’re not going to pretend it doesn’t exist, why pretend that it’s not real? What’s the point?”

“Because there _has_ to be a way!” she yells. Carrie flails her fist against the cushion, her next words coming in even louder volume. “It’s not easy, Paul. But I said I wanna work this out, so here I am, working it out. And this is how I do it. This is how I’m coping with it. I’m _trying._ I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings by making an escape out of this, but if we’re talking about who’s hurt the most, the answer’s gonna satisfy no one. Just let me have this. Just let me have my way to deal with this, and we can probably get through this okay.”

Paul opens his mouth, ready to reply, but stops himself. He doesn’t want to make a hasty, angry reply. That’s not gonna help anyone. Carrie has the right to find ways to make this easier—that’s already too kind of her to do—but Paul doesn’t need constant reminder of what he could’ve had instead. He doesn’t want to keep being reminded that he’s _not_ with Artie.

Paul sighs slowly, steadying his words. “Carrie, I get it. I’m not saying that you can’t have a coping mechanism,” he begins, “but maybe we should figure out a _new_ mechanism. Because Artie and I, our dynamics have changed now. I married _you._ We’re friends now, for real. I want to put aside that part of us, but constantly talking about what we used to have doesn’t make this process any easier.”

“What, then? How am I supposed to do this?!” She slaps the cushion. It’s like a fight between a tiny boxer and a fluffy opponent, but the fight is fierce nevertheless. Carrie narrows her watery eyes, jabbing at Paul without mercy. “Because you can say that you’re friends, but you were _always_ friends! You were friends when you fucked him in your office, you were friends when we got back together, and friends all the way throughout our relationship… It’s not doing anything to calm me down, Paul. It’s not helping. If I can’t do it my way, then tell me yours! What would _you_ do? If it were Penny and I who were together, what would you feel? What would you do?”

Paul straightens his back and stays in stony silence. Carrie’s shoulders drop weakly. He would’ve let them be together. That’s the answer. She knows.

So Carrie winces. She withdraws into herself, eyeing Paul sharply like a dangerous cat. “Why did you marry me, Paul?”

Paul recoils, as if Carrie just slapped him. The easy answer would be ‘I love you’, but Carrie wouldn’t have it and Paul didn’t say it anyway. What he said was, “What kind of question is that?”

“The kind that needs asking. Because you love me, sure. And I love you, too. But you love him, and he loves you. The only reason why you never married each other is because you can’t. So, what am I? A substitute? An alternative?”

Paul groans. “Carrie, please just… stop. Stop comparing yourself to him. You’re _not_ him. I’m _not_ comparing you to him. I’m not.”

“Of course I’m not him. He’s better.” She gathers her fingers into fists again, but she doesn’t punch. She clenches them tightly until her knuckles turn white. When she speaks, her voice wavers. “He’s got all this history with you, and… and…”

“Oh my God, Carrie, who cares about our history!? Our history was us being brats, singing, fighting, separating, then doing it all over again! There’s nothing precious about that! It’s like saying a piece of brick is precious! And how is he better? Look at his hair!” Carrie laughs in spite of herself and Paul, catching himself, replies the laughter weakly. "You're not better either. I'm not comparing the two of you. He's Artie. You're Carrie. You're my wife. And I love you."

Paul takes a deep breath, steadying himself. He doesn’t like yelling. His family doesn’t yell. So Paul softly puts his hand on the cushion that Carrie had been attacking throughout their conversation, pressing on it gently, soothing the pain. “Carrie, this is our present together, and I love it. Every single fight and argument, I want to go through it because it’s with you. That’s why I married you. So, I don’t care that I didn’t get to know you when I was a kid… not to mention that you’re not even born then,” Carrie laughs, and Paul smiles and takes her hands, “I care that I get to yell at you well into the future.

“So, I’m going to agree with you that there’s no point in acting as if Artie and I never existed,” he continues carefully, stroking Carrie’s knuckles with his thumbs, “but we’re not going to treat it as if it’s not real either. I don’t want to talk about the past… unless you’re really, _really_ curious, or unless you invoked ‘Carrie, you’re carrying my baby so you get to ask me anything’ clause…” He pauses to hear more of her giggling. Paul lifts Carrie’s hands and brushes his lips over it. “But I will answer your questions for things in the present, and I will do it truthfully.”

Carrie pulls her lips into a small smile that slightly quivers in its corners. She exhales shakily and nods. “Alright. I’ll try not to pry on things that’s gone too far back.” She laughs, even more lightly now. “Hey, I _told_ you we were going to fight on our honeymoon, what about that?

“Paul.” Carrie clears her throat and squeezes on Paul’s fingers, smiling at him. “What about my question from a few years back? From the year before the concert. Can you answer that?”

Paul frowns, his head tilted. “What was the question?”

“Did Garfunkel and Lorne fuck in your apartment?”

***

“This is the best day of my life.”

“Susan…”

“I’m never gonna get off this boat.”

“Susan, get him on a leash or I swear I’ll push him to the river.” Paul grunts and Susan laughs merrily. Next to the overwhelmingly beautiful brunette, her insane husband is bouncing on his seat, grinning from ear to ear, twirling his head around to alternate between seeing Paul and the Nile. Paul slaps his knee. “And stop that! You’re rocking the boat!”

“WISH I WAS A KELLOGG’S CORNFLAKE!!!”

“LORNE, SHUT UP!” Paul pulls Carrie’s arm, whimpering in despair. He puts his forehead against her shoulder. “ _Why?_ Why did you _have_ to take him with us?”

Carrie puckers her lips and pecks on Paul’s head. “Because I love to see you miserable.”

“Carrie? Baby? Your glittery fairy T-shirts are enough.” Carrie giggles, pulling Paul up and kisses him. She can feel him grinning against her mouth, and she breaks into one, too. Paul sighs and pats her head, staring into the dry landscape beyond the water. “Well, at least it’s a beautiful place to be miserable.”

“Come on! No one is miserable! You’re in the company of good friends, _and_ the person you love the most. Me!” Lorne bounces again and flails his arms. Paul squints his eyes until Lorne shuts up, mewling sadly. "But I'm a Lorne-flake..."

The Warner Bros. Recording had given them a free tour and stay as a wedding present, for which they went to Egypt. Carrie hand-selected their entourage, and they wound up with fourteen people on a boat across the Nile, including the Garfunkel-Marshall pair, and the unfortunate participation of Michaels-Forristal from apartment next door. It’s the “real” honeymoon, they said, following the last of Paul and Art’s tour—in Israel, which Lorne loved, and he'd been yelling for Art to translate everything he found on their photos and put his Hebrew school to use. Art wishes it’s neither crime nor sin to chainsaw Lorne Michaels off his limbs.

“You know what this calls for?” Art breaks the stream of noise coming out of Lorne. He throws his glance at the water, admiring the scenery. The water that drifts around their boat looks so much like his eyes, and his sand-coloured skin matches the vast desert; it's as if Art is a scenery in himself. Paul surely thinks he is, but that's not the kind of things he'd prefer thinking after only a couple of months into his new marriage. So he holds on tighter to Carrie, until Art suddenly breaks into song, and Carrie gasps a small “I _love_ that song” and joins him on the second verse of Jo Stafford’s _You Belong to Me_. Penny lifts an eyebrow, then shakes her head with a laughter. “I knew it. I’m living in a musical. I blame Lorne.”

Paul mumbles, “I take all opportunity to blame Lorne, so I’m with you in this.” He frowns and glares at Art, who’s now giggling and prattling about Satellite Wafers and his math class. “Is he high?”

Penny grins. “Yeah, I’m about to head that way as well. Who’s Mr. Jensen?”

“Our grade school math teacher. Oh, we’ve _got_ to get him to play catch after this. You’ll see the real Artie. He does this 12-year-old Art when he’s Satellite-Wafers high, I love it. If you call him ‘Artie dear’ with high voice, he’s gonna be sad and come to you with his head down and he’ll say ‘yes, Mummy’, because his mother used to always call him to shower before dinner and interrupted us in the backyard.”

“What, really?” Penny chuckles and looks at Art in disbelief. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard about him. What I know so far is that he’s super frowny except for when he’s not and when he’s high. Because he, just, reads _a lot_ , so my impression of him is… I don’t know. Stuffy.”

“Yeah, Art does like to come across as that… You know, he wasn’t a big reader as a kid. Yeah. He began when he’s in Columbia. But, let's give you a glimpse of the Artie that I know. Watch me.” Paul turns his head and cups his hands around his mouth. “Artie, dear?”

Art stops singing, turns his head, and slumps with a pout, mumbling a sad, “Yes, Mummy…”

Penny, Lorne and Susan yells and claps and laughs at the skit, while Carrie jumps in surprise and Art blinks then sobs into his hands. Carrie, catching up, giggles and draws Art into her arms. She narrows her eyes viciously and points at Paul, “That’s low of you, making fun of your intoxicated friend. And he’s in the middle of a story, too! Come here, sweetheart, tell me more about what Mr. Jensen did to your homework.”

Penny wipes her tears, still giggling. "That's so precious! And, God, Carrie's gonna be a _great_ doting Mom. Who gets high with her son." In her dying laughter, she returns her gaze towards Art, who’s now humming songs with jumbled melody, ignoring Carrie who’s trying to get him to sing something from Cinderella. From the way Penny's head drops to the side, Lorne can tell that her high is about to kick, so he gives Paul a little cue to ignore her. Paul smiles and slides to reach for Carrie, but not before he shoots one questioning look at Lorne, who looks away. 

It’s not a good thing when Lorne decided not to be loud and disturbing, but Paul probably doesn’t wanna talk about it, too. It’s gotta be about Artie. And Paul can’t talk about that. So he takes Carrie and takes in the afternoon sky that brims with sunset colours. Art, in front of him, is alternating between sobbing and singing, and Paul tries so hard not to stare that way. Still, his head supplies him with more than enough images of Art, and in the silence of the day, Paul is free to sort through that. 

Before the day of the hurricane, the last time Paul heard Art playing guitar was in London. That was, what, 20 years ago, give or take? Wow, where did time go? It took two marriages, one kid, 4 albums together, 4 solo studio albums for that to happen again.

Now Paul thinks of what unit is best used to count their history. Is it the amount of songs they’d produced together? Years seems to be too banal. Marriages, relationships, deaths, births? Separations, returns? Kisses, fucks, litres of tears, decibels of screaming, multiplication of pains, intensity of longing, strength of laughter? Where did the counting get lost? Artie would’ve loved to make the graphs, at least if he still likes doing that. Paul thinks about trying to remember what Art had said to explain things they did in graphs, but he remembers that he always zoned out when Art did that. Who? Who likes math? What a freak.

Paul loves that freak.

What is he doing, then, hugging and kissing Carrie?

***

Lorne finds Paul wandering around on his own when it’s well past midnight. He waves his provision—a bottle of very smooth scotch—and places a glass in Paul’s hand before settling at his side. Paul smiles at him as he pours the amber liquid. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“Oh, I have three cameras following you around, so I always know where you are.” Lorne grins and pours a portion for himself. “That, or I'd just learned about you enough to know.” He puts the bottle down between him and Paul, then raises his glass. “Cheers.”

They clink the glasses and carefully sips on the beverage. Paul has to admit that there’s no fault in Lorne’s taste in alcohol. So for the beautiful drink, Paul will let him disturb his solitude for a while. He swirls the liquid in his glass, smiling a little and quietly sighs. “Can you believe she actually wanna marry me?”

Lorne lifts his eyebrows. “Susan?” Paul laughs and slaps him on the leg, and Lorne chuckles. “Hey, you always express impolite quality of interest in my wife, you can’t blame me for being concerned. But, Carrie, yeah. In case you forgot, you _married_ her already, Paul. I think it’s pretty believable that she wants it.”

“Yeah, I married her, sure. But, _she_ actually _wants_ to. That’s pretty insane.” Paul frowns and lifts the glass to his lips, absent-mindedly tasting the flavour the liquid left on the rim. “She’s so… hot. And cool. And I’m, you know. Me.”

“Well, I’m gonna make you feel uncomfortable and say that I think you’re pretty much those things, too, Paulie.”

Paul scoffs and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m not.” He sighs again, loudly this time, and leans back, his head tilting towards the slipping moon in Egyptian sky. “I’m just a fool very much in love.”

Lorne turns his head and smiles. “That makes more than enough to compensate. And, yeah, you’re pretty lucky. Carrie’s smart, and funny. It’s gonna be a wonderful life.”

“Well, Susan’s a prize as well. An outstanding beauty, your wife.” Lorne makes a pretend panic gasp, and Paul laughs, then finishes his drink. He waits while Lorne downs his own, then proceeds to refill the empty glasses. Paul says, “You never congratulated me.”

Lorne looks down, making sad face at his glass. They both know that they’re not gonna like this conversation. Paul’s pushing it, probably because it needs to be said after all. So Lorne says it. He clears his throat and says it. “It didn’t feel like anything to congratulate.”

“Lorne, I _love_ Carrie.”

“I don’t doubt that,” he quickly adds, with a rapid nod. Lorne takes his glass and chugs a large sip. “But not the way you love him. I’m not talking about the intensity, I’m just talking about the kinds. It’s the different kind.”

Paul throws his hand. “Alright, you tell me, then. What kind of love is it? Why is it better?”

“The kind you should never let go.” Lorne finally looks at Paul, and he frowns with his whole face. Paul doesn’t like this Lorne. This Lorne feels like a coach in baseball team who talked harshly to get the team’s spirit up. ‘Tough love’ shit and everything. Paul doesn’t want it tough. What’s the matter with letting it be gentle? Let it be gentle. “I know you can be happy with her. You probably are, right now. But this isn’t right, and you know it. And I can’t congratulate you for things you’re not supposed to do.”

Paul returns the look with cold eyes. He puts down his portion of scotch, leaving it nearly untouched at the top of the stairs, probably mixing itself with sand blown from the desert or dust from the pyramid. “That’s very offensive,” he says, in a very low and steady voice that stirs the hair on the back of Lorne’s neck. Paul straightens his back. “I just married the woman that I love, and you’re telling me that it’s wrong?”

“Are you marrying Carrie,” Lorne braves himself, “or the baby?”

The last thing Paul did before getting to his feet and stomping back inside the hotel was shooting an angry glare at Lorne. Lorne doesn’t try to make him stay, and he doesn’t say anything. He simply nurses the rest of his drink, and carefully draws Paul's neglected glass closer to himself. As he anticipated, neither of them likes that conversation. But, also as he anticipated, he needs to say it. And he stays still because he knows that Paul, as he's leaving, makes fists because his fingers are trembling... because he knows that he needs to stop running.

Lorne drinks the last drop of his scotch off Paul's glass, staring at the waning moon hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Paul's being a complete pain in the butt in this whole part, and we root for Lorne now. (Also, I just found out that Lorne is the producer of Mean Girls??? WTF??? AND LASSIE?? WTF??) The next chapter might be coming in a couple of weeks ;3; (AND IT'S NOT A FUN ONE, I'M SORRY)
> 
> by the way, i made simonandgarfunkeling account on twitter because people kept on unfollowing my irl account when i make squealing tweets on which song of theirs I'd been listening to on a loop for the last 12 days, lol. i'll probably put up some small drawings there from time to time, be my friend (☞ﾟ∀ﾟ)☞ @thisisolippe ~(˘▾˘~)


	11. How Hearts Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hearts and Bones.

Things must be terribly wrong when Lorne Michaels becomes the voice of reason. Paul thinks that. So there’s got to be a way to make his words _not_ reasonable.

The good thing is, Paul _does_ love Carrie. Being in love with Carrie is the easiest thing to do; she’s a magnitude of charms condensed into a tiny pixie. But pixies are not exactly a domestic creature. Being in love with Carrie and being with Carrie are two greatly different things. When they finally return to New York, a lot of yelling takes place, and this time it’s not that easy to back down from each other.

But then again, it’s not their first fight. No, they’ve done this a million times already by now, and soon the fights become more funny than upsetting. They’d yell, then laugh, then talk. For all they know, it’s pretty much healthy: hey, they’re open with their feelings, what’s wrong with that?

So Paul thinks his relationship is what it’s supposed to be, considering how it’s always been that way. Suppose he'd learned from his first one that marriage doesn’t magically change things. So, he’s dealing with it more calmly; all the impending break-downs and the ones that were broken, he’s convinced that it’s not that big a deal. It’s just marriage.

Besides, there’s a lot of renditions to be done with his neglected album. Not just erasure of Art’s voice, Paul pretty much reworked nearly the whole album, getting Roy frustrated and slightly upset. But they blow past it. Paul picks up where he left off, and he works very quickly when he’s done tinkering the small things. Things get finalised, and Paul locks himself down to listen to the finished product on a loop in his office.

On the day of the album release, Lorne runs across the street, then across the park, then across the street again and nearly gets himself killed by an angry elderly woman with her umbrella for bumping violently against her. But matters are quickly settled, and soon Lorne manages himself into Art’s apartment door, knocking loudly and threatening to call a marching band to play ‘Kellogg’s cornflake’ in the corridor if he doesn’t show up in 10 seconds. Art steps on his big toe upon opening the door, but still Lorne pushes past him (jumping through the room on one foot because he’s in pain), and quickly puts the vinyl to play, only to find it already on Art’s turntable. The sleeve, showing Paul in questionably pink shirt that, if he recalls correctly, was worn by Paul in his TV interview with Art, is lying on top of Art’s vinyl box, the inner sleeve with all its song lyrics sitting on top of it.

Lorne relaxes and turns his head to Art. “So you’ve heard, right?”

Art shrugs. “I gotta know what it’s like without me in it.”

“FOOLS, said I, you do not know!”

Art sighs desperately. “Lorne, no.”

Lorne gestures at the turntable, then waves his LP, then flails his arm at Art. “You’re all over it! Look! You’re literally on the title. See? He-ART-s and Bones? Because you’re _IN HIS HEART?_ Okay, that’s too far-fetched… Whatever, I don’t care. I say it’s true, so let’s say it’s true! Also, because it’s better if it’s true. Okay, fine, since you insist, I’ll tell you all my speculations about this album. Sit down and listen to Uncle Lornie. Once upon a time, there’s a little boy who remains little all his life…”

Art frowns and grins and folds his arms, staring at Lorne in amazement. “Lorne, your insanity is too much for me to process right now. What are you trying to say? And use Normal Lorne language this time. I have Penny in the evening, and I’d prefer to use my brain for that instead.”

“Ugh, you two are driving me mad, and I’m mad as it is already. This is not healthy for me, you know?” Lorne puts away the album, then fiddles with Art’s turntable before finally turning it on. The distorted singing from the beginning of the first track of Paul’s new record fills the room for a while, and for some reason, although they know the sound comes from the speaker, both of them look up at the ceilings, as if it’s the voice of God speaking to them. Lorne softly grumbles. _My had intercedes with my bodily needs._ Paul gets obvious in the most cryptic way. He turns his eyes to the owner of the room. “I’m saying that this album is for you.”

“I know.”

“He’ll say that it’s for Carrie, and a bit for Peggy, maybe, but ultimately, every time he talks about them, he talks about you t—wait. Wait, you know?”

“Of course I know,” Art chuckles. He shakes his head, amused, and walks to his kitchen with Lorne trailing curiously behind him. “This is not our first break-up album, Lorne. And, really, after Paul gave me that Bridge walk-through, it gets a lot easier to understand what he’s trying to say. He _is_ good, isn’t he?”

“So, nothing?” Lorne presses impatiently. “You know about this whole thing, and you’re still not doing anything?”

“Lorne, he’s married. We kinda draw a line there.”

Lorne shifts slightly and narrows his eyes. “Define ‘kinda’.”

Art raises an eyebrow, slightly impressed. Lorne had picked up a thing or two from Eddie. He chuckles a little. “By ‘kinda’, I mean we trespassed once. Or twice. But I’m respecting his decision. It sucks, but Carrie’s a nice girl and I get why he likes her. Sure, they’re gonna kill each other someday, but that’s kinda how Romeo and Juliet died, so I’ll say he’s living the Shakespearean dream.”

Art takes a couple of clear glasses, handing one to Lorne, and draws a bottle of whisky. He smiles at Lorne, who’s pouting with his face all scrunched-up in dissatisfaction. There’s still no valid explanation why this whole affair bothers him so much, but it’s getting more comfortable to have someone to feel it in his lieu, Art thinks.

The track is turning to the second one, the one containing their dream of leaving they really nearly made real, and Art has to stop, slightly. He likes this song. It makes him sad, in a way all beautiful story ends do. Oh, how he knows. He knows so much more than Lorne can even begin to comprehend. Secret whispers and old stories they quietly shared only between them—no one knows these songs better than Art. The constancy of their longing, the disillusion from the breaking and the crumbling of their hopeful pondering… What a big and sappy work of heavily veiled ‘I’m sorry, I love you’.

It’s devastating when Paul cries through his songs.

Slowly, he pours a shallow pool of the honey brown liquid and offers Lorne a reward he rarely receives. “There’s a lot of stories in this album, you wanna listen about it?” Lorne lights up. Art smiles again, then nods towards the kitchen stool. “Then, sit down and listen to your normal friend Artie.”

***

Lorne doesn’t like the final decision, but, contrary to his public reputation, he’s not a complete idiot. He knows he has to respect their decision, stupid as it might. It’s not like he can do anything to change their minds, or the minds of the rest of the world for them. But if someone asks him again what he’d choose for super power, he’d choose that without a doubt. ‘Someone’ in this context refers to Harper Simon, who asked him this on the night before his father married the new Mrs. Simon, and he was left for a bit with Lorne while Paul stepped out to receive a wedding-related phone call. Probably Lorne has to call him sometimes. This super power thing is definitely a serious discussion every little man has to have someday, and who’s better at doing it than the most loveable neighbour-uncle in the world?

So Lorne excuses himself to Susan and steps through the kitchen door to abuse his free access to the neighbouring apartment. Susan has told him not to, considering it’s now a Simon-Fisher residence, but Lorne pretends not to have functional brain. He does that when it’s convenient.

The laundry room is empty, and so is the living room or any other room. Impertinently, Lorne skips ahead and makes his way to Paul’s office, arming himself with a couple of huge chocolate chip cookies he bought in a bakery on his way home earlier. He hasn’t really spoken to Paul since that day with the scotch in Egypt—not just the two of them, at least; they maintained jovial co-existence for public. Paul’s pretty good at that, Lorne now thinks. Shelving his real personal problems, that is. Very healthy, Paul, treating his emotional chambers like a cheap squeeze toy.

How would Harper react, he wonders, if one day Paul (or him, if he can get Paul to give him the honour of doing this) eventually gets to re-introduce Artie to Harper as his secret second Dad? Probably he’s gonna ask a lot of questions. Or perhaps he’d just shrug and say ‘okay’, depending whether he’s more like Peggy or Paul. That would be a good chance to find out. And after it’s done and settled, Lorne will fly him to London to visit the only gay bookshop in England. That would be a fun trip. They could look for the mysterious Kathy and judge Paul over fried fish.

Lorne can’t immediately find Paul, but small bit of his small legs can be seen stretched under his fancy desk that’s sitting in front of the huge windows of his office. Paul’s probably staring down the Central Park view again, most likely towards the direction of a certain apartment in which a certain delicate golden flower lives, looking like a queasy dandelion. They should do that. They should tell Harper, then run, then get married, then live in a house in the middle of a dandelion field where Lorne would take Harper to visit in school holidays, and they’d sing Jewish songs together like a happy little Jewish family they are. The only problem would be that Art might be too difficult to discern from all the dandelions, but they can come up with a method or two. If it can talk, it’s Art. There, problem solved. But what if there’s _really_ a talking dandelion, like the one in that children story? No, if it can sing, it’s Art. That’s perfect.

“Hey, Paul. So, I was thinking, probably I’d like to have serious man-to-man conversation with Harper about superpower and the possibility of living in Russian dandelion field…”

Paul shoots up to his feet. He lurches towards Lorne and bounces violently against his chest, getting wind to forcefully escape out of the latter’s lungs. Lorne’s eyes widen and he quickly throws the cookies (as delicately as he can, to keep their pristine shapes) and wraps his arms tightly around Paul.

Who’s crying.

He notices the record on the other side of the desk, still spinning though the song’s over. Paul had crumpled the lyrics sheet and re-flattened it, then probably did it two or three more times until the new sleeve looks like it’s been long damaged. The surface slightly bubbles and crinkled, the slightly circular shapes hint that they might come from tears that were dropped onto them. Lorne squeezes his eyes shut, and he quietly wishes that his ears have lids so he doesn’t have to listen to this. Probably that should be his new super power. The ability to close his ears.

This is why he wants them together. Because he can’t take this. He can’t take seeing someone he loves crying like this. Because he’d seen Paul cry before, but not like this. Not with the wild screaming as if someone’s torturing him. Probably someone is. Probably it’s himself. And Art—Art must’ve cried like this too, when no one’s looking. This isn’t right. He’d said it and he’ll say it again until it’s no longer true: this isn’t right. Their voices aren’t supposed to be used for crying like this. It’s not supposed to be used for screaming like this. They’re supposed to intertwine and sing songs about breakfast food. They haven’t made songs about bagels. Or eggs. Or bacons, but that’s not kosher. Lorne has a list of breakfast foods that he’d like them to sing about, so why can’t they just sing about it? Why can’t they just sing about foods and zoos and streets and how Art should’ve written Paul a ton of love letters from Mexico? About their boxers and whatever might have happened in winters, about herbs and skies and flowers and kissing shadows—why not?

Lorne pulls Paul closer, trying to see if he can muffle the sound of his crying. But even when it’s dampened, he can still hear it echoing inside his head. So he begins to sob, too, on top of Paul’s head. His shirt is now wet and sticky, but all he wants is to keep Paul there forever and away from the rest of the world. But even then, he knows he’s not the one who’s supposed to be there in that world alone with Paul.

“Paul,” Lorne calls softly between his hiccups. Paul’s screaming is dying down now, and it seems like a good time to disturb him. Paul inhales sharply as a way to let Lorne know that he heard the call. Lorne clears his throat. “I have… I have cookies.”

Paul twitches.

“I can also come upstairs and get some… drink.” He carefully pats Paul’s back. “And… and tissues. You have tissues here…”

“Cookies,” Paul mumbles. He lets go of Lorne and uses his T-shirt to wipe his nose. He coughs weakly, trying to get his clear voice back, but it’s raspy and dented from all the screaming. Paul slumps against his desk, breathing hard in staggered draws. “I want the cookies.”

Lorne quickly nods. “It’s on the… _hic…_ on the desk. Behind your butt.”

Paul turns around and finds the small stack and picks one. He tries to breathe a couple more times before finally putting the tip of the snack to his lips, sucking on it a little until it crumbles into his mouth. Paul drops his hands to his lap again.

Lorne looks down to his shoes, watching what’s left of his tears raining on the supple leather. The other cookie is his, but he wants Paul to have it. He wants Paul to have everything. And most of all, he wants Paul to have Artie.

“Paul, what can I do?”

Paul stuffs the cookie deeper into his mouth, munching just so he doesn’t have to reply. Not yet. He doesn’t know what to say yet. Lorne stands still, waiting and listening to the sound of his teeth grinding the crumbly dessert. When no reply comes, Lorne eventually lifts his face and says, “I have something. I’ll get it upstairs.”

Lorne dashes away, again—some days are like that, filled with running and racing; and this one’s for the greatest of all good, so it’s fine. He runs upstairs, then through the laundry room into his kitchen, then towards his bedroom and back. Paul’s still on the desk, his cookie is halfway gone, and Lorne waves a big book in his hand. He catches his breath but hastily shoves the book to Paul, who lets crumbs fall on its cover. Gently, Lorne removes the cookie, and Paul weakly sighs and lazily flips the book open.

The first page shows a picture of him and Art and their friend from a long time ago—the one his mother gave to Lorne, where Art held on to him with his nervous claws, smiling to the camera. _Whatshisface, Paul and Art,_ the caption read. Paul and Art. It really does have a nice ring to it. They almost used that for the band name instead—he wonders if Art remembers that. He wonders if things would’ve been different if they could use that name instead.

His reveries break when Lorne pokes on the photo, his voice drops to a giggling whisper, “I almost made that a billboard.”

He knows that, and thanks God for his mother, who stopped the insanity before it unfolded. Paul smirks and gives the book another flip. On the second page, is Paul’s baby picture. Lorne wrote a large ‘ _BOOP’_ with black pen near it, and doodled an inexplicable twisty scribble below it. Paul frowns and points at the black mess. “What’s that?”

“That’s Art! He’s boop-ing your baby photo! Look, behind it, I drew Art saying that you as a baby was 80% head.” He forces the page to flip, stabbing his finger against the odd doodle that’s probably supposed to be Art instead of a bowl of egg noodles. Lorne glances at confused Paul, his smile fading. “Oh, no. It doesn’t look like him, does it? I knew it. I’m not good at it.”

“No, no. It’s really good,” Paul quickly snatched, then bites back because it feels silly to humour Lorne for his crappy art project. But Paul couldn’t resist, and he pats Lorne encouragingly. “It’s, uh, yeah. It looks like, uh, Art when he’s, uh, awake. It’s, yeah. That’s how… _humans_ … are supposed to look like. Very good, Lorne.”

Lorne narrows his eyes suspiciously, but decided to carry on with the book, so he grins and gestures for Paul to flip to the next page. “Good. Because when I don’t have the photos, I drew on it. Look, this is you as the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland play…” Paul looks like a shocked gecko. “And this is Artie as Cheshire Cat…” Or rather, fried egg.

Lorne walks him through the book, showing the newspaper clips and stills and posters and tickets and other things he could find that had anything to do with them, then notes he wrote on it, such as, “ugly ties, sneaking into your closet to shred it”, “husband-husband in matching ugly sweaters”, “YOU WERE SINGING KELLOGG’S CORNFLAKE HERE”, “on my way to destroy that ‘stache”, “fucking read a fashion magazine already”, “THE FUCK’S GOING ON WITH HAIR?????!!”, “hubba hubba, hottie in sensible clothes (finally)”. Paul frowns through most of the first portion of the book, but slowly, his eyebrows relax and his face makes a little smile, that turns into a little laughter, that grows louder as the pages go by.

Catching the merry sound, Lorne looks at Paul, then carefully turns the pages in a bulk. “I have a section called ‘I Told You So’,” he said. He stopped flipping. The page shows a photo of them in their recent conference. Art was speaking and Paul, next to him, was rubbing him on the back of his neck. Beneath it, Lorne doodled what’s probably Lorne, pointing at them and saying ‘I TOLD YOU SO’. Paul frowns again, then bursts into giggles. Lorne smiles. “Paul,” he calls. Paul lifts his face. Lorne clears his throat. “I told you so.”

Paul sighs and smiles weakly at Lorne. “Yeah. You did.” He looks at the book. It reminds him so much of the binder he gave to Art on the day of his first wedding, the one that’s filled with their memories that he thought Art would’ve left behind when Paul betrayed their feelings for the sake of comfort. He’s doing it again, and this comes back to him. What can he do now? Humour Art with another pair of rings? That’s not how it works. There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing he can work with.

He should’ve listened to Lorne. That’s a very weird thing to think, but he should’ve. When Lorne said they should go back together, he should’ve. How is it possible? When Lorne becomes the voice of reason, things must be terribly wrong. When one needs to listen to insanity, things can’t be right.

But Lorne isn’t really insane. Art is insane.

He looks at Art’s photograph on the book, grey and quiet with his mouth open to utter words he can no longer hear. So apparently, everyone was right except for him. He doesn’t listen. He never does. Artie was supposed to be the one listening and advising him the right things to do. He’s always the one with more worldly consideration, after all—that’s what people said; Art takes care of real life things so Paul can have his head above the clouds, writing surreal things only people who live in dreams can see. But, no, Artie has to be stupid too and get scared of doing the right thing. Stupid Artie. It’s all his fault. Him and his hair.

“Lorne, I love him so much,” he mumbles. Paul can feel tears pricking on the back of his eyes, hot and painful. The tip of his fingers brushes the printed photograph, caressing the hair he might never touch again. That stupid hair. That stupid dandelion hair that’s far too blond to be safely seen with naked eyes, glaring and bright like an eclipse ring. Paul wants to be blinded by it. “I’ve done this again and again to him just so I can feel safe. I’ve done terrible things to him, and I’m not sure I’m gonna stop.”

“If you’re going to say that he’s better off without you…”

“Does he still love me?” Paul’s fingers clench on the edges of the book. His grip feels cold. It’s like he’s dead. Paul tries to say more words, but he only managed one, “Really?”

Sternly, Lorne shakes his head.

“Paul, he’s never gonna stop,” he said, then. “Neither of you will ever stop.” He inhales deeply, braving himself to commit the most impertinent thing he’d ever done against his friend: goading him out of his marriage. “It will never stop hurting. So you should find a way, Paul. And this is not it.”

He lets Paul cry again, drenching the book in tears. This time, there’s nothing but the sound of silence.

***

How could anyone leave his pregnant wife alone? They could. If it’s just for the afternoon, they’d excuse themselves to see their father for just a coffee and promise to return for _and with_ dinner. Following the excuse, in Paul’s case, Carrie accepted with a list of things to buy for her, including but not limited to blueberry muffins, honey-dipped doughnuts, brownies, cinnamon rolls, biscotti with _lots_ of nuts, shortbreads, cheesecakes… “Carrie, you can’t _possibly_ eat _all_ of this.”

Carrie laughed at that. She said, “Don’t tell me what I can’t do, Simon,” and shoved the rest of Lorne’s giant cookie into her mouth.

So that afternoon, the senior Mister Simon found his oldest son poking his head into the cramped office. With a surprised smile, he stands up to welcome Paul, whispers cancellations for all other engagements he has for the rest of that day, and locks the door. Paul settles in on the uncomfortable chair, grinning at the paper stacks on the table. His father makes his way to the other side of the desk, observing the entertained look on his son’s face.

“This could’ve been my life, had I flunked the whole singing thing,” Paul said, when his father finally sat. He points at the papers, then gestures around the room. He grins widely. “I taught a class once, do you remember that? On, uh, song-writing. I think it went horribly. I was really nervous.”

His father shrugs. “I was nervous when I first did it, too. You get better.” He reclines in his seat, throwing a glance at the ceilings, smiling faintly that if Paul weren't his son, he wouldn't know that it's there. “Do you remember when you first appeared on TV? I drove you to Philadelphia. You were supposed to be nervous on stage.”

Paul laughs. “I _was_ nervous, Dad. I almost threw up in your car.”

“Well, you didn’t seem so. You did really well. Even Ed said that.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Really? Eddie said that? He never told me that. What did he say?”

“That,” Mr. Simon shrugs again, disinterestedly. “And that your friend looked like a confused Christmas tree. I have a feeling you’re here to talk about him.”

Paul giggles. “ _Your friend._ You really have a beef with him, huh?”

“No, no. No beef, no pork, no meat whatsoever. I just… You know. Since the first time I saw him, I just had a feeling that… You know. He’s… You know. And now that I know for sure that you two are, you know, it gets more… you know.” Paul grins teasingly, enjoying his father’s discomfort. Eventually, the senior Simon lets out an exasperated sigh and waves his hand in frustration. “I don’t like that he makes you upset, alright? I’m your father, Paul.”

“No way! When did you find out?” Paul laughs when his father smacks his head with a notebook.

Paul likes spending time with his father. He’s insightful, very odd, very interesting, and frankly, he only talks about things Paul’s interested about. Music, sports, ugly garden gnomes… The heartfelt sort of conversation is not his forte, but Paul enjoys seeing his father fidgeting from time to time, tiptoeing around a topic he’d love to not to talk about but knows he has to talk about, poking around to get Paul to bring it up first. He wonders if he’s also like that when he’s trying to avoid a conversation. Probably not.

“Paul,” he finally relents, “what’s going on? Is it him? Did he do something? Did _you_ do something? Is the little girl alright?”

“Okay, Dad? Her name is Carrie. She is my wife. It’s alright to use people’s name, and it’s much better to refer to her _not_ as ‘the little girl’.” He giggles, then sighs. Sometimes when he’s with his father, he’d notice how much he’d taken after the man. The distracted look, the resigned gestures, the general oddity. Eddie’s a lot of his mother, but Paul—he’s straight-out Lou Simon’s double.

After a moment of silently staring down Paul, his father clasps his hands together and clears his throat. Paul looks blankly at his father, processing the questions. He opens his mouth.

“Dad, I still love him.”

“Ew.”

Paul bursts out laughing again. His father looks embarrassed for a second, then joins the laughter, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he says, between the loud barks. “I just never heard anyone actually saying that. About anyone, really. God, this is beyond me.”

He waits until Paul finished wiping his tears, then grins again, in his surprisingly childish way. He leans forward, resting himself on the desk and nods at Paul with serious air. “So, what can I do for you? I’m not really an advice person, of course, but… there’s gotta be something I can do. You wanna… You wanna talk about… loving this… squid… Art person? I can do that. I can.”

“ _Squid?_ How dare you. That’s the love of my life.” His father pretends to vomit below the desk. Paul giggles again. “Yeah, no, Dad. Actually, I was here to talk to you about Carrie. You brought this whole Artie thing on yourself, Dad. I just… I don’t know. I came here for distraction, I guess. You’re always good at not talking about important things. I guess I was looking for that. Yeah, don’t worry about these things. I just want to, I don’t know, be with someone who knows about me and don’t hate it but won’t bug me into talking about it.”

“I can do that,” he replies, nodding slowly. “So what’s going on with Carrie?”

Paul shrugs. “I don’t know. Look, I didn’t tell you that Carrie was pregnant when we were married, so that’s a situation you need to know for this conversation… And Lorne—you know Lorne—had been accusing me that I only married her because of that…”

Mr. Simon snorts. “That’s some dick move if I’ve ever seen one.”

“I know! Right? What a rude thing to suggest, right? Anyway,” Paul folds his arms, sighing loudly, “that upsets me. I love Carrie. With or without the baby, I _want_ to be with her. True, I didn’t wanna get married, but it’s not because of _her._ I was married, and I was horrible at it, that’s what I thought. That’s why I didn’t want to do it all over again. But Carrie wanted to, and, I don’t know. It took a while, but I did change my mind. I did want to give marriage a chance, with her. So when this happened, and the idea of family was introduced, I jumped on it. I’m just very tired of being accused that the only reason I’m with Carrie is, you know, what she’s carrying.”

Paul frowns deeper, grunting, “Lorne’s just seeing things for the way he wants them to be. Sure, I love Artie, but that doesn’t mean I _don’t_ love Carrie. I don’t need that being repeated. I don’t want to start thinking it might be true, because it’s not!”

Mr. Simon nods slowly. “I get it. Not the whole loving your wife while also loving the squid, but the other things, I get it.” They fall quiet. Paul’s catching his breath and his father’s considering what to say. Eventually, he leans forward again, staring at Paul intently like a game, or interrogation. “Are you happy with the marriage, Paul?”

Paul looks down, at the slightly chipped edge of his father’s desk. “I don’t know. I don’t think either of us were made for marriage, but I really do wanna try. Carrie and I, we fight so much and I’m afraid it’s not gonna get better, even with a child. I keep on contradicting everything, it’s driving me mad.” He shrugs. “But, I don’t know. It’s just relationship. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be.”

“Your mother and I had been married for a long time, in case you haven’t noticed. We fight. We love each other, we love our kids, and, to some degree, we love fighting. So, you’re not wrong. It’s just relationship. It’s just marriage.” He raises an eyebrow, giving Paul an uncomfortably studious look. “I know we’re living different lives, marrying different people. But happiness in marriage, if you trust what I’d learned, is not that different from any other kinds of happiness. So let’s put aside the word ‘marriage’ for a second. Are you happy? In general, are you happy?”

Paul nods slowly, thoughtfully. “I am happy, Dad,” he whispers. “I’m just very, very sad right now.”

Again, his father regards him. Only this time, with a hint of worry, and a lot of sadness. Paul doesn’t know what his father thinks, ever. The man has the blankest face in the world. So when a flicker of any emotion is seen on his face, it must mean that it’s uncontainable. Paul feels smaller in his guilt for dragging his father down with him, with all these problems that probably sound stupid to have for a man of his age.

But when his father stands up, circles the desk and pulls Paul in his embrace, that does it. Paul cries, again, like he’d been doing since the morning broke. And again, he recalls the day before his first marriage, when hurt was all they found. This had been going on repeat. The tears, the wedding, the aching. When will he learn?

But this time, he’s not alone. At least, this time, he’s not alone.

Paul watches as a droplet of tears is absorbed into his father’s dark grey suit, like a street drinking the rain. He closes his eyes with that image lingering in his head, leaning into the comfort that his father offers. From the quiet of him, Paul can faintly hear the old melody orchestrated by that great band under the golden light, and there’s his father, in the centre of it all, commanding them like an emperor of sounds. It makes him feel powerful, protected. Safe.

“Dad?” Paul calls with a broken voice, “Dad, can you call Artie’s mom? And just… tell her to call him? Please? Tell her that I asked her to call him?” He tightens his grip. “Artie… He should be with someone.”

He can feel the arms around him tightening, too. His father buries his nose on top of Paul’s hair, like he used to do in rare midnights when Paul and Eddie were in bed and he thought they were sleeping—the closest thing he dared to do to kiss his own sons. Paul can feel the heat of his father’s breath blowing against his hair. He sobs quietly, thinking of finding way to slip back to the time when there’s only the four of them, between those four walls. It was simple. It was loving. It was painless.

“He should be with you.”

Paul closes his eyes again. He knows he won’t go back to that picture even if he can. He can no longer live in the world without Art in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> otz my favourite paul simon song (ღ˘⌣˘ღ)


	12. How the Body Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul Simon disappears.

“Hey, Paul?” Lorne’s smoking from the passenger’s seat, his feet lifted and tapping on the window. Paul turns down the volume of the music a little, giving a small hum to allow Lorne to continue. Lorne looks contemplative, a signal of bad things. He leans his head back and takes his time saying, “Do you remember what you said about your first car?”

Paul frowns. They’re in _a_ car right now, so probably that’s not entirely out of nowhere. But Paul doesn’t remember that he’d ever talked about his first car to Lorne. “It burned in front of Artie’s house?”

Lorne waves his hand. “After that.”

“Then, no. What did I tell you?”

“Right, you were drunk.” He swings his legs down, planting it on the floor of the car, then leans his head to the window. “It was that time after your show in SNL with Art, you remember that? I took you to my place for whisky?” Paul nods slowly. Lorne replies the nod. “You told me why the car burned.”

Oh.

“You stopped hanging out with Art because he kissed you, remember? Then your friend said something bad about him because he thought you two weren’t friends anymore? Then it got you upset. So you learned about cars and engines and other things.”

Lorne tilts his head, staring at Paul, whose attention is now focused on him. “You let it burn,” he said. “That’s why it didn’t bother you that the car burned. That’s why it burned in front of Art’s house. I’ve been trying to process it as carefully as I could, but that was some crazy shit you did. I mean, I know you were just a kid and you were hot-headed then… And you did say you weren’t trying to kill him or anything… Just scared the shit out of him, and stuff…”

Paul sighs. “Are you going to turn me in or something?”

“No. But you were making a point that you’re not gonna let anyone hurt him, and especially not you. You did something incredibly dangerous, not to mention criminal. And evil. And scary. And reckless. And wasteful.” Lorne knits his eyebrows together, takes another drag and lets the smoke out of his mouth, slowly. “I’m afraid of what you might do now.”

Paul lifts an eyebrow.

Lorne shrugs. “You’ve got resources. You burned down $2,000 when that’s all you had. Imagine what you might do now that you’re billionaire.”

“Not gonna do anything to myself, Lorne. Or anyone.”

“Yeah.” He looks down to the dying embers between his fingers. “You already did.”

***

In summer 1984, things are going pretty normally for Art Garfunkel. He lives in a posh apartment in fancier side of the Central Park, right next to a tiny café that sells exceptional grilled chicken salad and delicious coffee; dates a funny, smart, beautiful, successful actress slash budding film maker; has his first compilation album on prep _and_ another album cooking… All in all, life is good. He’s trying to see it as if it is—as it _is._

That’s why when Paul Simon suddenly knocked on his apartment door, he couldn’t really process the event.

It was lunchtime and Art was thinking about getting that chicken salad from the side of the road. He wasn’t planning on seeing anyone today, and surely he wasn’t planning on seeing Paul Simon, who hadn’t been around since his honeymoon. Art opened his mouth and made a confused look, but he just stayed there—in silence, gawking at the sight of Paul.

So Paul took advantage of the immobility to step inside the apartment uninvited and jumped in for a hug. It took a moment until Art eventually shut the door and returned the hug, confused. It’s surely not the first time Paul came to his place unannounced—no, he’d been doing it since they were kids. Paul hadn’t changed much. Art even said it as such—“You’re still the same guy,” he’d said, and that was sad, and that was nice. Paul’s still the same guy—lurking around to get Art when he wasn’t expecting it, sticking with him like glue, never letting go. Paul’s still the same guy—loving him and admiring him with intensity only he could practice. Paul’s still the same guy—irritating, destructive, doing things as he’s pleased and winding up not pleased about it, hurting people along the way and himself along with it. He’s still the same guy.

Art stared down at the top of Paul’s head, somehow knowing that it’s futile to pose questions. It’s one of those times when Paul decided that his talent for words was better used for future song-writing purposes and should not be wasted to address queries he had yet to know the answers of. Thus, Art swallowed his questions and asked them to himself in his own head. What happens now? What will happen next? What does that mean for them? Where are they going from here?

Are they going?

He could hear Paul breathing him in, deeply. Art exhaled. It was as if their respiratory systems were connected. Probably they were. Art pressed Paul closer and tried to feel the heartbeat against his skin. Paul’s chest rose when Art’s fell. Theirs did not beat at the same time, but one filling the silence of the others. Like a cycle, like completion.

Both of them jumped in surprise when the phone suddenly rang. Art stared at the one closest to them—the one on a little table on the side of the sofa—and almost stepped out of the embrace to take it. If he would, Paul wasn’t making any sign that he’s about to stop Art. But his face looked like he’s about to cry—or die, it’s almost hard to tell. So Art stayed. He always did. Probably, he, too, was still the same guy.

There’s that look again on Paul’s face—like he couldn’t see without Art inside his arms and he’s terrified of being left in the dark. Delicately, Art cupped Paul’s face and brought them a little closer together. He felt his eyelashes curved when they pressed against Paul’s skin, and his body tingled when their lips touched. The hair on the back of his neck stood and his body felt both weak and pumped with adrenaline—it’s like falling into a pit, and he wanted both it to end and to never happen in the first place. Except he wanted it to happen and to never end.

Paul was exceptionally quiet. He’s not even this quiet in his sleep. Art thought of the first time they kissed—on Paul’s bathroom floor, with half-wet towel draped around his head that Art used to propel Paul's face towards his. It was fearful, it was hopeful—and for Art, it was beautiful. On the best day of his life, he found what he would want for the rest of his life: the sound of his best friend silenced by his kiss.

This time, it’s Art who pushed.

“I’ll come back to you,” he ensured. He stopped to analyse the words and wondered why it felt like a revelation. He pushed the question aside and returned himself to Paul, who’s still staring—but with less fear and less desolation. Art bent over and kissed his temple gently, then brushed his thumb over it. “Make yourself at home.”

The glints in his eyes seemed to almost spell ‘ _I am_ ’.

Paul took wide and slow strides towards Art’s bedroom, and Art threw one last concerned glance at his disappearing back. But he went on to pick up the telephone, right before the final ringing ended. He pressed the receiver to his ear, his finger tugged and twirled on the cable. Yes, perhaps, he still _was_ the same guy, too. “Hello.”

“Good afternoon, Sir. Am I speaking to Mister Arthur Garfunkel?”

“Speaking.”

“Is Mister Arthur Garfunkel currently with his husband, Paul Simon-Garfunkel?”

Art groaned, then sighed exasperatedly. “Lorne, I don’t have time right now. Paul just came and he seems a little odd, and…”

“Paul’s with you? Thank God!” Lorne grunted in obvious relief. Art frowned and his gaze slid curiously towards his phone. What had happened? But before he managed to put the thought into words, Lorne spoke again. “Listen, Art, you’ve got to get him to come. Right now. He can’t do this. He seriously can’t do this. Tell him to stop being insane and go to Carrie, _right now._ ”

Art straightened his back, suddenly feeling scared. “Lorne, what happened? What’s going on? What did he do? Is Carrie alright?”

“No, Garf…” Lorne’s voice sounded nervous. That’s never good. “Carrie just lost the baby.”

***

Paul was sitting at the edge of Art’s bed. The weight of his body created wrinkles on the neat bedcover. Like ripples on a pond, and Paul’s the pebble

“This is a pretty shitty thing to do, even for you.”

Paul lifted an eyebrow at Art.

“You can’t blame this whole thing on Carrie.”

Ignoring the accusation, Paul pushed himself to the bed, creating more ripples. Art frowned at the sight, taking it in for a moment. Paul was so small. He’s still very small, after all these years. He can probably fit in a backpack. If that were true, Art could just fold him and carry him as he walked all the way to Peru. That would be fun.

But their lives never really seemed to be made for fun. So Art sighed and stepped in. “Shoes off the bed,” he grumbled, bending over to remove shoes off Paul. He carefully placed them under his bed. Perhaps he didn’t have to. Not like Paul’s been running around in mud, like he used to do when he was a kid. But that’s his mother’s automated response to Paul saying, “Hello, Mrs. Garfunkel!”, and that’s stuck with him throughout the years. And how many years had it been? How many years since they first shared a conversation? Since Paul first told him, “I want you”?

Paul always gets what he wants.

Art laid himself down on Paul’s side, staring at the same ceiling, sharing the silence. Out of politeness, he shoved off his fuzzy slippers. His legs reached the floor while Paul’s, besides him, most probably didn’t. It’s difficult to attach the word ‘cute’ to Paul because he always seemed like he’s about to swing his guitar against your head, but the thought came flitting from time to time.

“I think we can do another concert,” he suddenly spoke. Art scowled, trying to process and convince himself that he didn’t hear the words wrong. He didn’t. “Another tour, the two of us. I was really distracted with the whole honeymoon thing, especially in that last show in Israel. Let’s start there. Let’s do a concert in Israel, then tour the world again, the two of us.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you, Paul.”

“Because you can’t stand working with me again?”

“No…” Art said slowly, suppressing a little smile. It’s almost funny how they hate working with each other. Oh, they _love_ singing together, and they love each other—but working together? God, it’s like going back to being 12-year-old’s and what they wanted was to shove each other until one of them fell.

Art propped up on his elbow, then shifted to kiss Paul, again. He could say that this wasn’t the right time and this wasn’t appropriate, but when had this ever been right and when had this ever been appropriate? So he threw propriety out the window and himself on top of Paul, who’s reacting exactly as a Paul would. His breath was caught for two second after the first contact was made, then he exhaled and melted into it; one hand sliding up and down the back of Art’s waist while the other caressing the nape of his neck. Paul liked to suck on Art’s lower lip, in possessive way that he was. And when they broke for air, Art would take turn to take Paul’s lip between his teeth. That always got a low growl out of Paul.

Then he’d take a very deep breath, and the hand on the waist would push Art onto him. Then the dynamics of the kissing would change with the introduction of tongue. Breaths quicken. The hand that’s been gentle would tighten its grasp around the curls of Art’s hair, pulling his head back slightly, away from Paul, while the idiot who did it would pounce to catch the escaping lips.

Things would usually go frantic afterwards, when Paul pushed and rolled like they were in a wrestling game, pinning Art below him, somehow managing to never breaking the kiss in spite of all the movements. So before that happened, Art pushed Paul on the chest, forcing him to resume the conversation. For a while, Paul looked at Art in shock, suddenly depraved of the contact. Then his brain began to pick up where they left off, and his whole body slumped onto the bed.

“Why can’t I blame Carrie?” he asked, almost mewling like a whining child hating his artichoke. “I can’t afford blaming myself anymore. I’ve made too many mistakes, Artie. Why can’t I blame this one on Carrie?”

“Because it’s _your_ mistake, not hers. She never did anything wrong. You can’t do this to her.” Art watched as the look on Paul’s face changed briefly before he put back his stony expression. Art frowned, but pushed with the conversation. “You should be in the hospital with her. She’s your wife. She _just_ lost a baby. It’s not only emotionally scarring, it can be lethal, Paul. It’s a dangerous thing, miscarriage.”

Paul sighed heavily. He closed his eyes and fell silent. Art watched as the bumps on his eyelids moved from side to side—restless even in state of rest, very Paul. But surely, as calloused as anyone can get, he should’ve known that this was above and beyond.

Then it struck him. Paul’s doing this on purpose. He’s trying to get out of this, and he’s not doing it with subtlety. Just like when he was trying to get Art to get out of the album and his life, he’s deliberately making people upset so he didn’t have to cut the ties. That’s very awful, and very cowardly. And very Paul. And Art was not going to let Carrie have it.

“That’s mine.”

Paul opened his eyes. “What is?”

“Your devilry,” he said. “That’s mine. You don’t get to hurt people like you hurt me.”

Paul smiled. Art replied, then kissed him faintly on the forehead. “Go,” he said, softly. “If you didn’t want to get into this with Carrie, you shouldn’t have married her, but that’s too late and you know it. But if you want to get out of it, don’t wait until she did it for you. You still have a chance to be fair with her, so be. I know it’s heartless to do that right after this happened, but it’s gonna be less hurtful than this.”

“Artie…”

“Paul, I know you love Carrie.” Paul snapped his mouth shut. Art glowered at his bedsheet, pulling on the wrinkle angrily. “I know. That’s not fabricated. You’ve always loved her, and she’s always loved you. In spite of the two of you being stupid, you two really are in love. That’s why when it comes to Carrie, I really don’t wanna be standing between the two of you. For all I know, this could be it. And I know that being in love is not equal to wanting to get married—believe me, I’ve been there. Laurie, remember? Everything we’re going through, and perhaps will go through, at least one of us would’ve done it, so don’t bother being scared that we might not understand. We always will. But that’s us. Just us. Don’t treat people as if they know you like I do. That’s not fair.

“Go,” he pushed again. Art could hear his breathing slightly wavering, but he’s surprised at how firm he was feeling right now. They’d been there, too, hadn’t they? So they knew what to do. When one of them was being irrational, the other had to have enough sanity for two. “I love you, and I want to be with you. But not like this. I can’t accept you if this is how you come back to me. That woman loves you, and you love her, and the two of you deserve better separation than this.”

“It’s too late for that, too.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But you can salvage a little of it. At least your relationship as two humans. She's a fantastic woman, and you can still have her in your life, as whatever you two can come up with. Friends, friendly ex, two humans co-existing civilly. Nothing necessarily hostile. Seriously, Paul, go. Go, or I’ll put you in my bowling bag and get you to hospital myself.”

Paul laughed. “That’s very hurtful of you.” He spread his arms, putting himself into a cross. He bore himself, Paul. He put weight on himself, and carried it along. To suffer? No, for punishment. Art waited until he continued. And Paul laughed again. “You’re acting very mature for your age.”

“No, that was when I was 12. I’m acting my age, you’re acting like a baby.”

“I thought you’re the baby.”

“Eh, you’re the one with the figure for it anyway.”

Paul smacked him in the head, then they broke into giggles. But much too quickly, the sound of laughter dissolved into silence, and the two of them shared it with a smile they're much too familiar with—the one spun out of sadness, out of fondness, out of hope. Paul pulled Art’s collar in his grip and they kissed briefly, deeply. Then he pulled away and pressed his palm on Art’s cheek, and somehow even that felt like another kiss. “I’ll come back to you,” he said.

Then Art realised what those words revealed.

That’s where they’d been going all along.

***

Lorne sighs and puts out the cigarette. He frowns at the cassette player, already resuming its original volume. He regrets a little having introduced Paul to his friend. Now he’s not gonna stop listening to this stupid mix tape.

“Look, I think it’s best if you wait in the hospital until she’s awake. I didn’t come to pick you up just so you can run to your parents’ house, little dude. Come on, you can't do this to her! Or to me! What should I say when she’s come around and you’re not there?”

Paul leans back. “You know,” he says, very slowly, “she would’ve known why.”

Lorne lifts his eyebrows, then they moved to meet in the middle of his forehead. “What does that mean?”

“She’ll know.” Paul turns off the cassette player and pushes a button, getting it to vomit out the cassette. He takes it and puts it in his pocket, then gives it a little pat, as if trying to comfort the little device from being abruptly taken out of its home. He feels like crying, a little, for the tape. But Paul just opens the door and swings his legs out. “Tell her I’m sorry.”

“Paul, you shouldn’t even have to say that! Go back to the hospital, and…”

“That I married her.”

Lorne widens his eyes. Paul avoids his gaze and turns his back, his feet now planted on the pavement, coating the soles of his shoes with dust. He mutters, “You were right, Lorne. And she was right. And I know that. I’ve known that from the start, and she does, too. But I love her. And she loves me. And for the moment, I forgot that it’s not enough. And we’re both idiots, so she forgot, too.

“I promise I’ll talk to her,” he says. Paul stands up to find himself on the outside of his parents’ house, and the feeling of guilt is butchering him. He knows this is insane. He knows this is stupid. He knows this is selfish and hurtful, and for a while he’s not even gonna be able to see Art because he'd crossed the one thing he asked him to not do—hurting people. But he can’t do anything right now. He doesn’t have the power to. He's just lost someone he loves that he never knew. And he knows it’s Carrie’s loss too, but he can’t contain it anymore. It feels like every time he feels something this beautiful, he’s forced to let it go. For what? And why? He can’t take this. Not any more pain. Not any more loss. “I just need to figure out how to.”

Lorne scrambles towards him. “Paul, just talk to me. Talk to me so I can help…”

“You can’t help me. You can’t help us.” He reaches out and pats Lorne on the head, smiling weakly. “But thank you.”

Then he closes the door. And that’s the last time anyone’s seen him.

At least for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so paul's an ass here and it's just difficult to safe him from seeming like a complete ass, but i did what i could... and don't worry, we all know art likes ass.


	13. How to Say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simon & Garfunkel Protection Squad saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... i decided to cut this chapter a little sooner because i'm getting upset.  
> the parts that's sandwiched between lines are flashbacks~ i used line to separate it from the ones between *** so there's (sliiiightly) less confusion ;v;  
> i'll edit soon but right now i'm hungry .-.
> 
> i think we only have 2 more chapters to go, guys! play sad songs
> 
> also, a lot of graceland references because we're approaching graceland era woo ( /AuA)/

“How much like Paul am I?”

“Physically? Spitting image. And I mean it. I think, when you were born, Paul saw you, yelled ‘BE ORIGINAL!’, then spat on you. That’s why, my small friend, while you physically look like Paul, your personality is like Paul who got spat on for living.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh. He folds his arms and crosses his legs, and stares at the lamp on the ceiling. “If I act like a complete jerk, do you think Carrie would notice I’m not Paul?”

Lorne pastes a surprised look on his face, then grins. “If stupid ideas are coming out of _your_ mouth, not mine, then the situation must be really dire, huh?” He slaps Eddie jovially on the shoulder, then goes on to giving the latter a lot of pats. “Worry not, Eduardo Simon…”

“That’s not my name.”

“… your good Uncle Lorne is here. Now, let’s address the situation. Basing on all my stealth missions of sneaking into Paul’s apartment, he’s still not home, so I assume he’s still with your parents? What does he do there?”

He shrugs. “Listening to that one tape, over and over again, Dad said.” Eddie frowns, then massages his temple, as if thoughts are flooding out of him and he’s trying to push them back in. “Did you know that my mother knows?”

Lorne gasps. “What? Seriously? How did that go?”

* * *

Belle Simon slapped her son.

The thing about little Mrs. Simon is, she usually has more than one ring on her fingers. The hand that slapped Paul that afternoon had two then, and one of them was a chunky green sort that gave a little _thunk_ on the back of Paul’s head. He yelped a loud “ow” that sounded like his old boyish whine.

“That’s what you get from leaving your wife while she’s in the hospital!” the lady yelled back. She raised her hand and went for more hits. “She’s having a miscarriage! She lost a baby! Might lose herself! It’s painful! Get to the hospital, you tiny putz!”

“Hey!” Paul shielded his head from his mother’s attacks. “Mom, that’s mighty hurtful and, God, stop hitting me! Your ring!”

She did stop the hitting. Her face was crumpled with anger, and she huffed when she rested her fists on her hips. “Lorne called me, that nice boy, looking for you. Good that he found you and dragged you there.”

Paul opened his mouth, but he hesitated. And because she was his mother, she knew that something’s wrong. And just like that, she returned to 1950’s when Paul was the size of her dining chair. She pulled him close and patted his head, kissing him from time to time. “What is it, honey? Is it about the baby? LOU! GET THE KETTLE! He’s in his day off. Come on, sit down in the kitchen. Now this is a proper time for strawberries, you want me to get some? Alright, alright. I’ll have time to make iced tea if you’d just tell me you’re coming, but… Oh, Lou! I said, kettle!”

His father raised his hands in the air. “I’ll get it. But what is he doing here? I thought someone said something about the little girl? I mean, Carrie?” Belle kept on dragging Paul to the kitchen, making angry mutterings about the news. Then the father frowned, and followed them with a confused, “But aren’t you supposed to be with your wife when things like that happen?”

“Oh, Lou, thank the God all your sons were born,” Belle grunted, pushing Paul to the chair. She got herself busy with the kettle now. “I’m gonna tell you something, honey. Marriage isn’t easy. Look at me and your father. Oh, you have no idea how many times I thought about breaking his favourite glass and sprinkle the shards into his breakfast cereals, but, no. I think about what matters—his paprika chicken. Now,” Belle Simon twisted herself after she’d put on the kettle on burning stove. She placed her hand on her waist in menacing way that Paul was always afraid of. “Could be at night when she’s awake, so you can stay until dinner. Bring some good food for your wife. I’ll make something. Oh, and I’ll make something nice for your friend, Lorne. How about honey cake? Oh, he liked that very much when he invited himself to our apartment that one time and had dinner with us, do you remember that, Lou?”

“First of all, I didn’t know he did that and I’m gonna behead him.” Paul leaned on his palm. “And, hold the honey cake. I think I’m gonna stay a while longer than dinner, if you don’t mind.”

His mother frowned. “How long exactly?”

“Long.”

“Paul, you can’t run,” his father spoke. Paul lifted an eyebrow. His father was staring at the table, avoiding everyone’s gaze. “You did something, you face the consequence. That’s what you do. You’re not a quitter, Paul. You never were. So what you’re doing right now…”

“I’m not quitting,” he interrupted. Paul realised that he, too, was staring at the table. It’s silly. Maybe he should try to be a little like his mother. What’s that like? Nice. Like Eddie. He’d wind up with a proper girl, if he’s like Eddie. Definitely without this whole complication. He’s not gonna fall in love with Art, and he’s gonna be too nice to ditch his wife when she’s facing life-threatening situation like this.

But Paul is Paul. That can’t be helped.

“It’s just not her that I’m fighting for.”

There’s a loud noise from behind his chair, and both Paul and his father jumped at the sound. His mother was glowering in front of the stove, glaring at the two of them. “Are you two going to treat like I’m not here or what? What’s this about, then? You having an affair, kid? I’m gonna cook you.”

The men looked at each other. Paul stuttered a little, then shrugged. “Everyone else knew.”

“Paul…”

“You and Eddie. It’s not fair.”

“But your mother…”

“Is _right here._ Now tell me what’s going on!”

They shared one more look, and Paul shrugged, and his father raised his arms in defeat. Paul cleared his throat and clenched his fists, preparing himself. This should be easier. He’d done this before, so this must be easier. “Mom, listen, there’s something you probably need to know… I, uh, I like Art.”

His mother nodded, leaned back on the kitchen counter. “Of course you do. You’ve been obsessed with him since you were 10. What’s new?”

 _That,_ Paul didn’t expect. He panicked a little, stared at his father for help. “No, Mom…” he stuttered. “I mean… I like him. _Like_ him, like him.”

His mother frowned. “Where did your Homeward Bound go when you’re in need of that? You mean you _love_ him?”

“Yes! And not, ‘I love grandma’ _love_ love! I love him like I wanna marry him love!”

“Ew.”

“DAD!”

“Sorry!”

His mother giggled. Paul and his father looked at each other, then at her, and she blushed but couldn’t stop giggling. The whistling sound of boiled water interrupted the moment, and Belle Simon guffawed loudly like a happy wolf, her head thrown back in glee, before she turned around to get the kettle off the stove.

“Oh, _that’s_ what you’ve been stressing about! And, Lou, good for you. I thought you’d beat the hell out of him. Oh, honey, I know.” She answered Paul’s blubbering with a sharp nod. “I know, sweetheart. Oh, by the way, honey? Sugar?” Paul wanted sugar. His mother stirred one into his tea, then poured the hot water into more cups for her and her husband. She sat down, nursed her cup, and smiled in amusement at Paul. “Honey, do you remember that one time when… Well, when your friend died. And Artie came to see you…”

“Oh my God.”

She grinned toothily. “Yeah… I did like how you avoided the question, though. You didn’t even lie! What a great liar you are.”

Paul gawked at his mother for a moment, then he started giggling. Perhaps he _was_ a little like his mother. “You’re the one to talk. You said you thought we were crying!”

She laughed again, pushed her cup away and reached out her hand across the desk to pull Paul’s in hers. She was smiling tenderly. “I know it’s not been easy for you, sweetheart. I wish there’s anything I could do to make it less painful for you, but it is what it is. And for now, all I could think of is how glad I am that you finally told me.” Paul returned the smile, and gave her fingers a little squeeze. She nodded and straightened her back. “And, Lou, I’m surprised that you’re fine with it.”

Her husband scowled. “ _Me?_ I’m surprised _you’re_ fine with it! And that you knew!”

“Yeah…” She cringed. “I just wished it’s not this. I mean… Rose’s son? Come on. With that hair? Honey, why? And, _until now?_ I thought you’re already with Lorne, that little sweetheart. I thought that’s why you two stayed in an adjoining flat like that and that’s why he called your dad ‘Daddy’.”

“Oh my God, NO MORE OF THAT!”

* * *

“So _the whole Simon family is fine with it?_ My God, what a team.” Lorne shakes his head in disbelief. Then he stops, and grins enthusiastically. He wiggles his eyebrows. “So your mother thought I was dating Paul, huh? She thought we’re a cute couple, didn’t she? Now, what do _you_ think, Captain Rosemary? Anyway, that’s one good news. Paul can invite Artie to family dinner and canoodle post-Thanksgiving. Lovely future.”

“What’s with Captain Rosemary?”

“Oh!” Lorne clasps his hands excitedly, bouncing in his seat. “I have assigned code names for all of us. All of us being you and I and the rest of our favourite heroes in Simon and Garfunkel Protection Squad. See, because your wife’s name is Rosemary, you get to be Rosemary. You go well with chicken! How ‘bout that? Now, because I’m the most important leader, _I_ get to be Prince Parsley, mentioned first in one of the most important songs in Simon and Garfunkel discography. So I was thinking, our faraway comrade, mysterious Sandy… Sandy’s a chick, yes?”

“He’s Art’s college roommate, so, no.”

“I see. Sandy the dude gets to be Sergeant Sage, because his name starts with an S. And, anyway, how _is_ this Sandy? Is our Cambridge branch agent updated?”

* * *

“I mean, I _do_ like the idea of another tour. But I don’t think we’re made to work together.”

“You did it for years until he got married.”

“Yeah… But it’s different. We have complete opposite artistic directions now.”

“You always do like mellow stuff more than he. Tell me why you two can’t work together.”

“I told you! That’s why! We’re doing solo now, and the gap just gets deeper!”

“You two _also_ did solo before you two got back together again in the 60’s. Don’t lie to me, Art. What’s the real reason?”

“I have integrity.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I hate Paul.”

“Arthur, don’t make me use your full name.”

“Alright, we get distracted because we can’t stop thinking about fucking. Satisfied?”

“Not as satisfied as you after you finished recording, I assume. Anyway…” Sandy laughed when Art made his signature whiney noise. “Back to the recent events. Really? What you just told me, is that true? So he hasn’t seen his wife since the miscarriage?”

“I don’t know. I mean, he did go there. She was unconscious, Lorne told me.” Art frowned. He leaned his back against the wall. “Sandy, something weird happened.”

“Your hair straightened.”

“No. Shut up.” He didn’t want to laugh because it’s serious. So Art pursed his lips and took a few deep breaths to shut down the fit. Then he resumed. “I went to see Carrie. You know, because I’m dating her best friend, I ought to be there, and everything? And she said the weirdest thing to me… She said, ‘Don’t see him before I do.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you two are disturbingly close friends that sometimes ignore boundaries of marriage?”

“No. Yes. But, no, I mean… She said it weirdly. Like, she stared at me and it’s like… she’s mad at me? I mean, I haven’t seen Paul for months since their honeymoon.”

“Okay… Maybe she just doesn’t want you to go and find Paul and drag him to her?” Sandy sighed. “Alright, what do you think she meant? Why does that bother you so much?”

“I don’t know…” Art twirled the cable of his telephone, chewing his lip nervously. “I just felt like… she’s mad at me. I don’t know. I have a sinking feeling that she might… know? And Lorne did say something about Paul saying weird thing about Carrie would’ve known why he sulked and ran… But Paul would’ve told me. Or not. I don’t know, maybe I’m overthinking this. But if Carrie knows, I think Penny would be informed? So, I don’t know, maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

“Hey, no harm in trying to find out, right? Better than mulling over this and doing nothing about it.”

“Yeah… But I don’t think I’m going to see Carrie again. I’ll ask Lorne to do it.”

“Why not ask Paul?”

“Um, because Carrie said no? And because he’s sulking and if I disturb him, he’s gonna run to faraway places? Didn’t I tell you that the first time he ran to England was because he was sulking because of me, and then his mother nagged him out of his bedroom? Imagine what he might do, with all money he has now. He might go to Timbuktu and look for gold and never return.”

“Is that a song?”

“Yeah, the Everly’s. _Take a message to Mary…_ ”

“Alright, get it out of your system.” Sandy laughed with Art through the telephone. Art didn’t finish the song, but he was glad to sing a little. Sandy loved his voice. “Okay, you go and talk to Lorne and get him to talk to Carrie. Now, this Lorne person… Is it best that I never see him, ever?”

“Sanford Greenberg, you are, without a doubt, the most intelligent man I’ve ever met.”

* * *

Eddie pokes at Lorne. “And how did that go? Did you find out anything from Carrie?”

Lorne shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell. I couldn’t really say ‘so, Carrie Fisher, did you know that your husband is in love with his husband?’, could I? Basically we just… stared each other down.” He frowns. “But from the way she clammed up, it could be. Honestly, it could be.”

Eddie holds his breath, his fists clenching. “If she _does_ know, then what do we do?”

“Ah, taking your Squad duty dutifully. Very dedicated, Captain Rosemary. Listen, if we want to have successful operation, we have to solidify our team. We need the Thyme. Who else knows about this?”

“My parents,” Eddie shrugs. “Art’s parents. Although, won’t rely on his father.”

“Ah, yes, his mother… But she’s Rose, so if she’s in the squad, you can’t be Rosemary. Alright, because you’re the smallest—I mean, the youngest—but also the smallest—you’re the last to be mentioned, that’s fair. So Art’s Mom is Captain Rosemary, and you’re… Tiny Thyme.”

“I hate you.”

“That is _so_ Tiny Thyme. Okay, here’s what I think. We can’t ask Captain to talk to Carrie because they don’t know each other and other reasons. _But_ we can ask her to talk sense into Paul.”

Eddie frowns, and slowly nods. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

“PRINCE PARSLEY TO THE RESCUE! Now, you call her, because I don’t know her… If his father picks up the phone, tell him you’re Lord Sanford, because he probably hates all Simon bros now. Go!”

“I don’t know her phone number…”

“GO SNEAK INTO YOUR BROTHER’S SOCK DRAWER AND FIND HIS PHONEBOOK! GOD, TINY THYME!”

***

On Friday, someone knocks on the door of the Simon’s residence. Belle Simon, who knows who’s coming, opens the door with a little spring in her steps. She swallows the woman at the door into her hug, then welcomes her in. Right after the guest sees one little Paul Simon loitering around the TV room, she barges in and hits him on the head.

“Ow!” Paul’s head had received two attacks in the last two weeks, and that doesn’t do well for his brain. He shouts his complain: “Mrs. Garfunkel, what the hell?!”

The said Mrs. Garfunkel—now also Captain Rosemary—grunts angrily and replies as loudly, “Knocking some sense into you! Sorry, Belle.”

Paul protests, “Hey, how about ‘sorry, Paul’?”

“Don’t mind that. Rose, some tea?”

“That’d be lovely, thank you.”

“Excuse me!” Paul flails and gestures around the room. “What’s going on? What are you doing here, Mrs. Garfunkel? Oh my God, did Artie call you? He did, didn’t he? That tattle-tale, he always rattles on me.”

She scowls at Paul while taking her seat. “Actually, _Eddie_ called me. Oh, that sweet boy. I wish my baby likes him, not you, you idiot! Oh, I'm sorry, Belle.” She touches her friend’s arm when she comes approaching with a pot of tea in her hand.

“ _Again_ …”

Mrs. Garfunkel isn’t having any of it. “Uh-uh. You sit there and explain to me why you’re being utterly stupid. You’re being utterly stupid! That’s your wife you’re leaving! I’m not going to let you antagonise my baby, making people who know think that he's the cause of all this and all... Now get your ass out of here!”

Paul pouts and folds his arms defensively. He waits until his mother returns with sugar and biscuits, so he has someone who’d prevent Mrs. Garfunkel from hitting him on the head again. “I _can_ have a breakdown.”

“Of course you can have a breakdown,” she said, taking a piece of biscuit. “But breakdowns come and breakdowns go. What you’re gonna do about it, _that’s_ what I’d like to know.”

Paul looks down to his hands. His mother had forced a cup of tea into it. She throws herself onto her favourite armchair, and glances sympathetically at her son. “Paul, you’ve been _mulling_ over this for _days._ What are you doing here, sweetheart? It’s really not acceptable for you to treat your wife that way. Even when you’re in love with someone else, you do have a responsibility as a husband.”

“I know, Mom,” he sighs wearily. Paul taps his nail on the cup, making faint clicking sounds with it. If he continues on, a melody might appear and he might wind up with a song. He’s miserable about Art, so he’s definitely gonna wind up with a song. “I know I messed up real bad this time. I should’ve pushed aside my agenda and go to my wife, I know. Instead, I’d just been hiding in my bedroom, thinking a way out of this… The truth is, I’m just too scared to face either of them. I’ve been trying to find a way to please everyone, and I just keep on coming up with the worst ways to hurt them. You can’t—you just can’t do that, can you?”

“Pleasing everyone? No, dear.” His mother shakes her head painfully. “Especially not in your case. Paul, Art understands. I’m sure he does. Even _you’_ re sure that he does.”

“But I don’t want him to understand.” Paul frowns. The words that’s just spoken out of his mouth were truer than the shape of his body. No, this isn't something that Art should know at all. It's like all those stupid lessons on x's and y's; no one needs to know this. Paul clenches his fists, angry at himself for even introducing the concept to Art. “I don’t want him to understand any of this. He shouldn’t have to. But even if I separate from Carrie…”

“Whoa, Paul…”

“ _If I separate from Carrie,_ ” he continues louder, shutting down the two yelping women, “things will repeat. We’ve been through this way too many times. If I don’t come up with any real solution… I can’t get him through that again. And, my God, it’s so weird talking about this to _my_ Mom AND _his_ Mom.”

The mothers look at each other. It’s true. All of it—that there’s really nothing to be done, and that this is absolutely weird—although both of them mildly enjoy knowing the latest scoop of what’s what with their sons and would definitely speak of this over fruity cocktails sometimes. From the way Rose’s face glimmers, Belle knows that she’s thinking it, too, so she smiled to signifies that they’re going out that very evening to talk about this after all. After a while, Belle Simon reclines and slowly speaks. “If you haven’t found out after decades, you might never really find any way, Paul.”

“Or perhaps you have, but you don’t want to take it,” Rose Garfunkel suggests. She clasps her hands together, nodding heavily to her feet. “I understand, Paul. This is what you’ve always want, being famous and everything. You can’t just let it go.”

Oh, that’s it. He didn’t want to let go of this. He said he would do it for Art, but he couldn’t pull through. Why did he do that? Why did he lie to Art? Except he probably didn’t lie. He just didn’t know he’d be too scared to let go of it all.

Typical Paul. He gets very, very scared, then destroys things.

He lets out his breath slowly. Paul used to think that it’s something his family does—blinking slowly, breathing slowly, speaking slowly… But he’s really trying to slow things down. If he moves slowly enough, time might slow down. Everyone might slow down. He might be able to move beyond it all—beyond the laws of physics, beyond the laws of men. He wants to be invisible and admired, how could anyone do that? The way he could love both Carrie and Art at the same time, that’s how. But there’s always something he wants a little more than the other. What’s that, this time?

It’s not even a question. He wants Art. He’d always wanted Art, ever since he’s a child.

“I’m gonna see Carrie,” Paul mutters. As soon as he said it, he puts down the cup, still filled to the brim with black tea, and shoots to his feet. He frowns and scans the room, not sure what he’s looking for. Clues. Answers. Anything. Forgiveness. “Thank you,” he said, then he stops again. He looks at his mother, then at Art’s, both staring back at him with worries, encouragement and fondness in their eyes. Paul wants to hug them for the rest of his life. “I don’t know where we’re going from here. I don’t suppose we have anywhere to go. But we’re going there together. I promise.”

“Oh, honey.” His mother walks towards him with her arms wide open. She cradles Paul in her, rocking him lovingly in her embrace. “Don’t worry. Both of you are going where you belong.”

Paul leans towards her neck, weakly mumbles, “Where’s that?”

She lets go of Paul, presses her hands on his shoulders, and smiles. “To each other.”

***

Everyone was removed from the room when Paul came. There were stinky eyes that Paul wouldn’t call out—he deserves it, after all—and a lot of whisperings as people passed by. It’s Carrie’s last night in the hospital—she’s gonna be discharged tomorrow morning. So at least Paul caught her before she’s gone.

But did he?

Paul sits on the folding chair by Carrie’s bed, and Carrie watches the way her fingers are pressed onto one another. She wiggles her forefingers, making twirly dance while Paul musters courage to speak. But she’s exhausted all patience she could ever have for Paul, so she speaks first.

“It’s over, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t turn her head to see if Paul nods. Paul doesn’t.

She smirks at the hospital blanket. “I wish I could say it’s fun while it lasted.” She lets out a heavy breath, then draws her fingers to her chin. Carrie pouts sadly. “If it weren’t for the baby, would you have left me?”

“Maybe not for several more months.”

Carrie scoffs a little laughter. “So same result, then? Only without rings.”

“And Billy Joel’s jukebox.”

“I’m taking that.” Carrie’s smile fades from her face, and she bends her head deeper. “Did you blame me? Did you ever?”

Paul quickly shakes his head. “Carrie, no. This is not your fault. None of these is.”

“I know that. About the baby, too, I know that.” She finally looks at him. Her eyes are watery and penetrating, like ice-cold coffee. Paul realised that he’d never seen her eyes that clear before. What had he done to her all this time? “I’m asking if _you_ blame me. For standing between the two of you.”

Paul thinks about the answer for a moment, then he subtly nods. “A little, unavoidably,” he admits. “But mostly, I blame myself."

Carrie sighs heavily, and she closes her eyes, looking even more tired than she already is. Paul looks down to his lap, like a child waiting to be retorted by his mother. His mother. He's only been meeting acceptance after acceptance, understanding after understanding—even with his own wife, he's lucky. Whereas Art... Art is always the one to take the pain. He finds way too much rejection, loss. He even knew what it's like to be rejected by Paul. Paul had never been there. He had never known life with Artie that doesn't love him.

"I think about what you said back then," she said, suddenly. Paul abruptly straightens his back to appear attentive—a habit from his childhood. But this time, he does pay attention. Carrie shakes her head sadly. "What you said, during the hurricane in our honeymoon. You said something about your history with him is merely like a brick." She makes circular shapes on the blanket with the tip of her finger. "Is the brick precious now?"

He doesn't remember that. But maybe he did say it, because it makes perfect sense. "Brick is precious when it builds home." Carrie lifts an eyebrow at him, but her face doesn't show any anger, or hurt. It's just blank. It's just nothing. Because she's already gone. Paul looks down and clears his throat. "And I’m sorry. I am. I thought I could do it. I thought I could love you enough for it to matter more than anything, but I couldn’t. I'm sorry.”

Carrie cocks her head sideway, giving him an observing gaze. “I think you could,” she said softly. “In other world, I think you could.”

Paul returns her gaze, wanting to be under it and away from it at the same time. Why can’t he want to be with Carrie? He wants to be with Carrie, so how can he also not want it? “In other worlds, I’d still be with him.”

And to his surprise, Carrie gives him a smile. “What about in a galaxy far, far away?”

Paul laughs. It was small, it was nervous, but it made him love Carrie even more. He reaches to wrap her fingers in his hands, and he brings his lips to kiss them. They will always love each other, no matter what—that’s what they know of each other. In a way, Carrie, too, is the love of his life. They speak their own language, fight in a way no one recognises, fall in love for reasons no one understands—there’s no mistake that this is pure. But Lorne was right. This isn’t the kind he couldn’t let go.

“So,” Paul said, almost as a whisper, “is this the end of it?”

Carrie gives him one last measuring look, then, “You know,” she replies, “I still think you could. So let’s see.” Then, she laughs and shakes her head. “But maybe not in marriage. I’ve had enough. I’m not meant to be a homemaker, Paul, and home is what you're looking for. So, it's fine. I'm fine. I’m tired of being someone’s wife, anyway.

“I’m Carrie,” she said. “I’m Carrie, and I’m no one’s anyone. I’m me.”

Paul smiles and gives her fingers one last gentle squeeze.

“Yes you are, Carrie Fisher.”


	14. How I Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so there was so much i intended to fit in this chapter that i couldn't.... SO I TAKE BACK THE WHOLE 'ONLY 2 CHAPTERS TO GO' THING, there's probably 2-3 more after this hahahahhahahahaaha i'm not gonna promise anything from now on, i'm sorry
> 
> i'll edit and adjust as i go ;3;

“Paul, there’s something I didn’t get to say when you went to England.”

Paul grinned. “That was twenty years ago.”

Art shrugged. He was also smiling, shyly, the way he’d always smiled whether or not that was what he’s feeling at the time the smile was made. “Yeah, I was scared to say it, then.”

“Wait, which time was this?”

“The one after my graduation.”

“Oh.” Paul frowned, laughing a little with a hint of confusion in the ring. “You chose a weird moment to be afraid. I was hopping mad about you then, I would’ve listened to you lecturing me about architecture had you wanted to.”

“Really?”

“No. But what did you want to say?”

“Don’t go.”

***

There was a lot of ruckus when Paul went away. Not from Art, quite obviously, but from everyone else who knew about them—Lorne, apparently, had named themselves Simon & Garfunkel Protection Squad, and Art would love to have him hanged for disgusting conduct. The Simons—in here means Belle Simon and Eddie Simon while the patriarch, Lou Simon, simply sat down and frowned unhappily at Art from across the table—goaded him into bringing Paul back, as if he could do that. Lorne asked harrowingly of why Art didn’t stop him from going, then shrieked and wailed to the moon—Art had consulted where to buy silver bullets in case Lorne actually _was_ a werewolf. Sandy was impartial, because he’s the only normal person in Art’s universe; but even _he_ asked what the fuck both of them were doing. His mother asked the exact same thing, but without the expletive. “Even after _all that_ you’re still not settling together?” she’d asked.

‘All that’ means Paul and Carrie’s divorce. For the rest of the world, it’s just a fallout that followed the miscarriage and Paul’s horrid reaction to it. For Paul, it’s a death of a star and his whole world was both blindingly bright and ending at the same time. For Art, it’s an odd time—does he grieve for his best friend whose dream marriage just ended, or does he rejoice in the return of the availability of the love of his life, or does he do responsible thing and be a good boyfriend to his girlfriend? For everyone who knows—the Protection Squad, or whatever—it’s a stupid act only if it’s not being taken advantage of, and now it’s stupid.

For Paul and Art collectively, it’s a strange relief. Paul’s not happy that he’s divorced with Carrie, but without Carrie in his mind, he has nothing else but Art to think about. But neither of them likes that. Paul doesn’t like to think that he had always treated Art as the second most important. Art’s relatively less annoyed, but there’s that annoyance anyway. They keep comfortable distance to observe and analyse their own feelings and options, and even though they’re sticking with their usual dynamics—in which they’re still separated by at least one relationship—they’re relieved to be allowed a space to think things through—about what Paul should’ve resolved within himself so he could think clearly and treat Art the way he should, about whether Art is really holding on to Penny for anything else other than to heal himself and for her friendship. Wouldn’t be the first time that Art confused friendship with love, anyway.

Carrie returned to the apartment once, after the whole feud. From what Lorne could hear from behind the laundry room’s locked door, there was no screaming, which was unusual in the case of Paul and Carrie. “No, it was icy,” he’d said. Or perhaps they’re really just talking, tying up loose ends. Carrie left by the afternoon, catching her flight to LA—really, nearly for good, returning to her natural coast. _She’s gone_ , Paul told Art later, _and she came back to say so, as if I didn’t know that already_.

It’s the strangest thing, bidding farewell to someone you love so much. And the rumination of its strangeness is almost as painful as the strangeness itself. Paul had been sitting on the kitchen bar with a drink in his hand, staring blankly at the golden light that hit the surface below his glass, and saying something self-pitying like, “It’s right for her to not want a part in this.” But Art didn’t do too much to compensate the pain. He didn’t immediately take off his shirt and try to get the bad thoughts away in bed; he simply listened, nodded, poured more alcohol, and let Paul stay as much as he wanted in his apartment, barely touching him in his sleep. For Paul, it’s even better than the alternative, and that’s saying something.

“I think I did it again,” Paul had said to Art, one September night just after they reached Israel for that one more tour that they eventually agreed on. At this point, they’d ditched most of their caution and had asked for just one bedroom for the tour—for whatever reason, they didn’t even bother telling anyone, and anyone was just too scared to ask because the air around them was, officially, still hostile, especially after Paul’s divorce and everything. For all people knew, it might be a trust-fall sort of exercise.

So there’s Art, on the other side of the bed, trying not to get tickled by his own hair, turning his head to see Paul on the neighbouring pillow. “Did what?”

“Taking you for granted.”

“Oh.” Art frowned in the dark. Paul would know that he frowned. More from habit, a little from instinct. It’s not even the whole being-in-love thing; they’d just known each other for far too long to not be familiar with each other’s automated facial response to remarks. “Yeah, a little. And as I said, I’m used to it.”

“I treated you as if you’d always be there for me, no matter how I screwed up.”

“Yeah, you did,” he said. Art blinked at the darkness, somehow finding a bizarre familiarity in it; like an old acquaintance that he’s glad to be catching up with. The darkness guided his hand to find Paul’s under the blanket, and he forced the rough fingers in his grip. “And here I am.”

“I’ve been such an ass to you, and everyone.”

“Yeah, well, I do like asses.”

“Artie.” Paul tugged his hand, sounding slightly upset. It’s usually the other way around—that’s Art’s tone that he’s using. What’s this now? Were they fusing into one blob of familiar actions and reactions? What’s next, finishing each other’s sentences? Art turned his head again and, this time, he faced Paul, who’s scowling and in brink of tears. “You deserve better.”

Art touched Paul’s cheek tenderly, his fingertips barely grazing the warm skin but triggered electricity in their wake anyway. Art resorted deeper into the darkness, letting its old wisdom to navigate him while he blinded himself with the shield of his eyelids. It was their first kiss since that one delayed lunch, and it was as delicate as it was when Paul first kissed him in that morning before Carrie returned to their lives. Cursory from being overwhelmed with feelings, rambunctious and loud, like being in the middle of a crowded street in a strange country when you’re lost.

“I deserve you,” he said.

It was the night that Paul told him of his plan to leave, and why he’s leaving. Art had said that he understood, because he did. And Paul cried all night because he’s leaving Art again, and Art waited until morning to ask, “Are you coming back?”

Paul, exhausted from crying, nodded. And the two of them, finally, fell asleep.

***

Paul left when winter was meeting its end. There were a lot of things he needed to prepare, mostly himself, but he didn’t speak much of his plans to leave aside from people who he thought would need the notification. His family, Arthur Garfunkel, and, because he’s stealing Roy, the record company, who greatly ignored him. There were secret whispers of questions on his sanity, but no one really said anything to his face. So without heeding anyone’s unspoken opinions, Paul got on his plane right on time.

Art, now the only living boy in New York, was left to contain the flame Paul left in his wake. The trusted Rose Garfunkel had called his son, asking him to pay a visit to frantic Belle Simon in her residence sometimes when it felt—if ever—convenient. Art checked in on Eddie about this, and the boy—apparently dubbed Tiny Thyme, basing from Lorne’s shouting in Art’s ears throughout the phone call—confirmed that his mother _was,_ naturally, worried sick about Paul’s leaving. “Not even worried about that he’s probably lost his mind after the divorce,” Eddie said. “But it’s not like he went to Disneyland.”

Which was true, so even though it’s odd, Art decided to visit anyway. He hadn’t met the senior Simons in a very long time, now that he recalled. And since they recently found out, and considering that he would perhaps resume his relationship with Paul in near future, there’s a sense of propriety in this visit. So Eddie made up a little excuse to not take his wife to this particular family gathering, and joined Art for moral support. (Art had asked Susan to keep Lorne away from freedom.)

“Paul is not running away from anything this time,” Art had said, after a long deliberation on Roy’s breath-taking capacity in keeping Paul and Art off troubles that had soothed Mrs. Simon at least a little. The topic had manoeuvred towards the question on the course of their relationship, which made 75% of them uncomfortable—in here meant that Belle Simon was the only one who was completely unbothered to navigate through this conversation. Art himself wouldn’t have really minded… It’s not like he’d never kissed Paul in front of Eddie or anything, and he thought he’d enjoy talking about his problems with Paul with anyone that’s not Sandy, who took every chance to make him laugh, even when he _really_ wanted to be serious—although Paul’s parents weren’t really a part of this thought… But the way Lou Simon glared at his steamed fish made him feel unnecessarily nervous.

He’d taken note that Mrs. Simon had prepared her fish stew that Art used to really like, along with a number of dishes that seemed to be tailored to suit Art’s taste as a child—the fish, some garlicky bread, potato cakes with lots of cheese, and the lemon cake that once caused a great fight with Paul because Art apparently took the bigger slice. Add some ice cream floats, and it’d be the Simon’s after-school dinner table around Art’s birthday in the 50’s.

“He’s just going after something,” Art resumed. He tried to keep his voice as light as possible, because it’s still undoubtedly scaring the hell out of his mother, Paul leaving.

The Simons were always pretty solid, even their father. The Garfunkels… Well, the brothers weren’t Paul-Eddie level of closeness, but they liked each other. And they’re _very_ close with their mother—she’s the glue of the family, really. But the father… Well, he’s not around much when they grew up, him being a travelling salesman. And for Art, he had this whole Paul thing going on. He shook his head, then finished his presentation. “He’ll return, when it’s out of his head. He just can’t concentrate on anything until it’s done.”

This didn’t help much, and as soon as he’s done saying it, Art realised as much. He frowned, trying to find the right words. It’s pretty clear for him, because this had always been their dynamics: Art loves to sing so he can do it anytime and anywhere and anyhow, but Paul loves music—more than anything, and even probably more than Art. So Art’s used to being the second: After all, didn’t Paul first find attraction in him because of the music he could produce? Paul first loved Art’s voice. Art loved to be loved by Paul, in whatever way available.

That’s pretty desperate, probably. But somehow, he just felt that without shame. Art takes what he can; Paul takes _all_ he can. But he doesn’t want the whole world, Paul; he simply wants a whole world worth of music. Right now, he’s clearing that off, so he could go back to Art with nothing looming over his head. And for Art, it only matters that he’s going back.

In his silence, he slowly realised that Paul had said it once. “I’ll make you used to it enough, it won't make you feel anything anymore,” he said, about Art and the pain of losing Paul. Paul. He always does what he said he would.

And all those were very obvious in his understanding. But how to say that out loud? How to explain this? It’s always difficult to explain his closeness to Paul in layman’s terms—most of the time, they just don’t. But this was one of those times when such explanation was needed, and Art had no Paul to help him to process the language. Luckily, he had better help.

The better help was Eddie, who was stuffing his mouth with bread. “Oh, is it about that cassette that he couldn’t stop listening to the whole last year?” Art shrugged, although it was meant to be a nod. Eddie knew anyway; he’s at least 80% Paul anyway. He scoffed. “Yeah, that does sound like Paul. Mom, remember that one time he wouldn’t get out of bathroom and when he got out, he had The Sound of Silence? Yeah, this is just like that.”

Belle nodded, although her face was still twisted in a deep pout. Still, she slurped a little on her fish stew, then relaxed when she’d swallowed the chunk. She turned to Art calmly. “Arthur, dear,” she began, “since you’re here, I want to know what you two are planning to do now. Eddie said you’re still seeing a woman… Polly? Pony? Penny. Penny, is that true?”

She didn’t really wait until Art made words to match his nervous face. Belle sighed and shook her head gently. “I don’t understand, you two. I’m not judging you or anything, because Paul’s also doing it. I just don’t understand how this works.”

“It doesn’t,” he laughed. Art reached for his drink and took a sip before answering. “I mean, I don’t know what _I’m_ doing, but I think Paul just really likes the idea of being a father.”

“You know, I grew up believing that Paul was not capable of taking care of anything that doesn’t have strings.”

“Mrs. Simon, I think Eddie needs a better brother.”

“Why did you think that?”

Art pursed his lips nervously. Lou Simon frowned at him while asking the question, and the frown grew deeper still. He stuttered a little with the answer, “Well, because growing up with Paul had apparently turned Eddie’s brain into mush…”

“No,” he interrupted impatiently, looking at Art as if he’s an idiot—and, to be fair, he was behaving that way. “I mean, why did you think Paul wanna be a father?”

“Oh.” Art shrugged weakly. “I don’t know… But he does love being a father. I mean, with Harper. And he was really happy about Carrie’s pregnancy, so. I don’t know. I mean, he _does_ always like you as a father, so I guess he just… wants to do it too?”

The table was quiet, save for little clinking sounds of silverwares hitting bowls and plates. Then Belle Simon looked at Eddie Simon, then both of them grinned, then they laughed loudly while Lou Simon blushed horribly and Art paled in shock. Eddie covered his mouth with his palm, bumped his head on the table a little, then sprang up with a gigglish, “Artie, you’re gonna make my Dad cry!”

His mother giggled in an astonishingly similar way. She put her arm around her husband’s shoulders. “Oh, honey, you _know_ Paul loves you. Don’t mind him, Artie. He looks cranky because he thinks you’re stealing his precious little son from him. Not you, Eddie, dear.”

“Of course not me, Mum. I’ll _never_ screw around in family bath tub, using _your_ soap.”

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“EDDIE!”

Eddie choked on his potato cake. He pounded on his chest, trying to clear his throat from the chunk, then downed his drink before yelping, “I’m sorry! But you two introduced me to Lorne, and he made me read the whole 500 pages of Brief Guide to Protecting Simon & Garfunkel for Simon & Garfunkel Protection Squad, and I swear to God, I’m going to get back at you whenever I can! For God’s sake, Artie, that’s _my brother!_ You made me read to what my brother had done with you!”

“HE DID WHAT?!”

“Yeah. Why did you think Lorne _always_ had alcohol with him? Paul becomes loose-lipped when he’s drunk. I thought _you,_ of all people, would’ve known. Right, you two got stoned, not drunk… Anyway, I was thinking about killing myself when your mother called me to complain about ‘dissemination of _very_ private details’ because of a chapter called ‘So Long, Frank Lloyd Wright’ that wasn’t necessarily talking about farewell…”

“ _MY MOTHER WHAT?!”_

“Oh, yeah, your mother got one, too, since she’s ‘Captain Rosemary’, or whatever. _That_ amused me. Why don’t you call your mother and ask what she thinks of Chapter 7: At the Zoo and Other Public Places They’d Done It In/On/At? Oh my God, he’s a complete creep, but don’t get me started with _you._ There’s literally a chapter called ‘Nailing Paul (If I Could)’, where apparently Lorne snuck into your apartment to steal your old diaries to find out what you've always thought of doing with Paul…”

Art’s “ _HE FUCKING DID WHAT_ ” was yelled at the same time with Lou Simon’s “EDDIE SIMON, I BEG YOU, STOP!”, so Eddie _did_ stop, even though he murmured, “He made me memorise _everything_ …” very, very sadly. Belle Simon silently made mental note to ask Rose Garfunkel to show the heavy file to her, and to bring Eddie to a psychiatrist, and thought to herself of how funnier it’d be had her son actually _did_ go out with that darling Lorne.

While that didn’t make the lunch less awkward, that _did_ ease the mood, although Art would’ve preferred that he could choose much less crass topic. Art pondered upon how easy it was with this family. He’s probably lucky with his mother, and it’s probably his fault that he hadn’t told his brothers… But no one in Paul’s life had ever resented him for falling in love. He thought about what his next family dinner would feel like, and it hurt his heart to think of all the times he had to make up excuses not to come, or all the times he did come to find himself not even casting a glance at his father, and vice versa.

He’d never cleared it out with his father, too. But is there any point in that? Art didn’t know much about his father, but it seemed like he’s not the type to change his mind over something _this_ radical. Sure, it’d been several years now since the first time he heard of this, but had his thoughts changed, or had it worsened? Art had never faced his rage first-hand, but he really didn’t want to as well.

After the lunch was done, Eddie was held hostage by his mother—officially, to help her with the dishes, but Art captured a snippet of: “So, tell me more about this Guide that your friend Lorne made…” He decided not to stick around for too long and instead turned on his cigarette and peeked into a spare bedroom where Paul reportedly had stayed for a couple of weeks during the Carrie incident. It looked nothing like a place where Paul would lay his head on—from the floral patterns to the choice of pillows—oh, Paul was _the worst_ when it came to bedding.

“She was right, you know?” The voice coming from the door gave Art a start. Lou Simon walked in slowly, his eyes fixed to the dresser where Art had his fingers on, probably were reaching for that framed picture of The Simons in their youth that Belle had placed there. He took a deep drag, then offered an ashtray to Art, who tipped his cigarette more from politeness than actual necessity. “About what I thought about you. I’d known for a long time that you’re in love with him. I apologise if I made you feel uncomfortable, that time when I said I didn’t like you. I was just being… protective, I suppose. Just doing my job as a father, you know?”

Art frowned, but he was smiling. He let out another puff, then let the silence merge their thoughts into one. “I didn’t even know then. I was a kid.”

“Of course you didn’t. You were a kid,” he replied, then shrugged. Art watched him as he, too, filled the air with wafting grey smoke. He sighed and dropped the ashtray on the drawer, placing his cigarette on it as well. “But I knew. It’s very easy to see. No one looked at anyone like that and didn’t mean it. I just thought, it might not go that way, but if it did, everything he’s gonna have to go through would be _your_ fault.”

“But how?” Art said before he could stop his insistence. He almost backed down, but decided to go along with it. “I wasn’t in love with him then. I didn’t think I was.”

Lou Simon looked at Art studiously, as if he was a sculpture with a secret carving. It’s almost like the way Paul looked at him, back then, when they were children. Locating the oddity, unravelling the code, discovering the answer. Art liked to have someone else to figure him out so he didn’t have to. In his own way, Paul had been pampering Art for a long time now.

“Think again,” was all he said for the matter. Then he picked up his neglected cigarette, inhaled through it, and killed the fire on the ashtray. Art watched as the vermilion light didn’t even dim before it died—a hit, and just like that, it’s gone. The ashes swallowed what’s left of them, like vultures. Lou cleared his throat and nervously wiped his hands on his trousers. “I heard your father’s not dealing finely with this.”

Art pursed his smile and nodded a little. “I heard so, too.”

Lou Simon nodded back, then sighed. He leaned his hand on the drawer and looked down, accumulating strength or courage to say what he wanted to say next. Art waited. He always did.

“If you ever need anything… And I’m not saying that I could replace him or anything… But if you want to, you know, just… talk, or if you ever need a father, or something father-like, well…” He shrugged uneasily.

Art smiled again. He said a soft, “yeah…”, dumped his cigarette, and leaped into the open arms of Lou Simon. He thought of his own father and the last time they hugged like this—further than he could strongly recall—and the thought brought tears to his eyes. He thought of his mother, who didn’t even think of telling him ‘no’, in spite of what she believed in. He thought of his brothers and what they could possibly feel about this. And he thought of Paul.

Art began to quietly sob and thought, for a while, why he always waited for the slow-moving Simons. They always, in the end, gave him nothing but unconditional love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i have to prepare for end-of-month presentation so idk if i'll be able to fit the finalisation of this series in between BUT i'll try~


	15. How to Wax More Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paul returns from South Africa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS LONG. AND IT'S NOT DONE. 1985 IS NOT DONE. HELP US ALL.
> 
> The poem referred in this chapter (and its title) is Christina Rosetti's Monna Innominata. Do read it if you haven't!

> **I. ARTIE**

“You should come home soon.”

“I’m going to.”

“And see me.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Yes. And I’m also sure that I’ll regret it.”

Paul laughs. He leans his head against the wall, soothing the ringing that’s running around his brain. It’s been so full of sounds, his world, these past few days—and it’s amazing. It’s almost like returning to his childhood with his father’s band and never coming home.

But his head’s spinning now for a different reason. In other time, with other people, he might yell at the phone or not take it in the first place, since he’s coming here to find peace in the midst of the calamity that is all departments of his life. But not this one. He can’t just dismiss this one. The love that’s attached to this particular relationship is still too strong to ignore, that every little disturbance, as long as it’s coming from and for this affair, seems to only muffle the pain it’s been causing. 

But he’d made up his mind. Everyone’s interest is on the same line as his, and he knows that this is what he should, and want, to do. It’s gonna be hurtful, though. It’s bizarre, how the realisation of a dream can be so violent.

“Listen, I love you,” Paul begins. He can hear how his voice drops to a near whisper, as if the fact that he’s capable of loving is a big secret. He presses his palm to his heart, trying to suppress its speed and force. “I love you with monstrous intensity, it scares me. And I know you said you thought I could, but I really couldn’t.

“He’s my life, Carrie,” he said. Paul closes his eyes and inhales deeply. “I’m not going to gloss him over anymore.”

Paul waits. There’s a silence from the other side of the world. His heart beats loudly again, and it’s not in anticipation of the cost of this one phone call. Paul thinks he’s gonna throw up. He really just said all that to Carrie—and to himself. To Carrie. The closest person he had to be his perfect match in all sense. In the end, he couldn’t choose the perfect woman—no, he opted for something quite God-like. The earth had never been their home anyway.

“Paul, I couldn’t hear the first part of that speech, but you basically blew me off, huh?”

“ _What?_ You didn’t hear what I said?”

“Ugh, no. Was it important? Ugh, just hit me up when you’re back home! Terrible reception. I don’t even know what I expected. This is a long-distance call.”

***

What felt like could’ve lasted forever, didn’t. After only a couple of weeks, Paul returned to New York and left a message to Art, who was out with Penny, before skipping town again. Art received the message in the morning during his ritualistic orange juice run.

So in the afternoon, Art was reunited with Paul in the latter’s house in Montauk, all ready with enough snacks supply for 19 years of isolation. That day, they walked around the beach with the sunset, recounting their stories from the past weeks that they weren’t together. It felt much longer than that, somehow. For Art, it felt like he hadn’t seen Paul since their first album together, as if the last 20 years were in complete absence of Paul. Somehow, memories from their early years were amplified and it swallowed what’s been done ever since they rediscovered their way back to each other. He didn’t recognise any hurt. He only felt love, fresh out of confusion. Paul, returning to him, after severing love he could’ve had. And Art felt so ready to give him the truest kind, unafraid.

“Wait,” Paul extended his arm and stopped it at Art’s chest, keeping him from moving further. Art felt his toes sinking on the sandy beach. “You said to my Dad that I ditched you because I wanna be a father because I _liked my father?_ ”

Art clenched his fists, and nodded nervously. “Um, yes. I’m… sorry?”

Paul frowned. “Why?”

“Because you sounded… mad?”

“I’m not mad.”

“You sounded mad.”

“I _always_ sound mad.” Paul grinned and patted Art on the back, calming him down. He resumed the trek, helping Art out of the sand. “God, Artie. You’ve known me for more than half your life. I’m not mad. I was _surprised._ That was true, I didn't even notice. I love my Dad and I love Harper. And the thought of having another child just threw me off, I even forgot about you for a while.” Paul stopped again, crunching his face at the thought. “That’s pretty awful of me.”

Art quickly shook his head. “No. No, it’s not. It’s not awful to want to have a child. Some people _were_ born to be a father, some people weren’t. You had a good example, so that makes sense.” He took a hold of Paul’s wrist, scowling. “I guess… I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a baby? That sounds very weird coming from me, but I do think about that sometimes.”

Paul laughed. “Yeah, that’s super weird. I mean, I get where it came from and I appreciate it, but _please_ don’t ever say that again.” Art grinned and nodded shyly to the sand. Paul removed his wrist out of Art’s grip and moved to interlace their fingers together. He smiled towards the sinking sun. “And you’re my baby. That’s all I need from you.”

Art lifted his eyebrows, his lips busy suppressing a fit of giggles. “Changing your mind about the name again, huh?”

Paul turned his face towards Art, his eyebrows knotted and his mouth made a half smile. “Did you ever realise that your mother calls you ‘baby’, while my mother calls me ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’? Is that disturbing?”

Art shrugged. “Point me to a Jewish boy who doesn’t have at least a mild mother complex, then I’ll agree to find it disturbing.” Then he suddenly lit up and grinned that Garfunkel grin at the orange-tinted sea. Paul saw the change on his face with a mild alarm, narrowing his eyes a little in suspicion. Art said, “You know what _I_ found disturbing?”

“No,” he quickly replied. “If _you_ found it disturbing, it must be legit disturbing. No.”

“I think you’ve been treating Lorne like your son.”

“DAMN IT, ARTIE, I SAID NO.”

***

They’re doing things they used to do in their youth. They simply sit around with books and foods and drinks, writing and reading and singing and building forts out of their books and their foods, and everything else in between. Sometimes either or both of them would leave to tend to their works, and they would return and the day would resume as if the interruption never happened. Rapidly, they begin to build what seem to be a life together—Art, waking up in the dead of morning to walk towards the lighthouse and back, returning to bed and get caught in Paul’s half-asleep morning fuck demands, actually getting back to sleep, waking up for shower and cereals or toasts, more writing, more reading, more talking, more feeding. It looks like a real life. Art’s waiting for it to be, as usual, over.

“Carrie called me when I was in South Africa.”

Paul just suddenly says that, after breakfast. Art had a boiled egg and salad, and now he’s making tea in the kitchen. “Oh,” he said. So this is it. This is the end.

“I’m just telling you this because I thought you need to know before I return her call. I might see her soon.”

Art simply sighs and nods. He finishes pouring the hot water before answering. “I understand.”

Paul looks up from his book. Art couldn’t see the title from afar, but even if he’d had perfect eyesight, he still wouldn’t be able to see it because his eyes would’ve been drawn to the glinting brown eyes of Paul’s. They look darker by year, Art thinks. It gets harder to read Paul from his eyes because even the colour’s trying to conceal his emotions. What doesn’t Art know? That Paul loves Carrie? He's known that for years now. He’s come to terms with that.

But Paul puts down the book and his lips are apparently arched into a smile. “What?”

Art shrugs, even though he feels bitterness creeping up his tongue. “I understand that you’re coming back to her. Just a reminder that things haven’t changed from my part. I don’t know. I’m happy if you’re happy, and all that crap, I guess.”

Paul grins in amusement. “Artie, I didn’t say I would. I told you, I just wanna let you know that I’m talking to her soon. I’m not getting back together with her or anything.”

Art frowns. “No?”

Paul shakes his head.

“Why not?”

Paul laughs. “Because I love you, idiot.”

“Oh.” Art brings the tea to Paul, settling the pot on the carpet while Paul carefully takes the cups and saucers from him. Paul takes a moment to notice that he no longer has the blue and white tea set that Peggy surrendered to him—not after Carrie broke it that day when she found out about Laurie. God, things they’ve been through.

And this one, he noticed, was given to him from Mrs. Garfunkel, last year. The set had similar pattern to Artie’s favourite mug from his childhood, the one Paul kept on forgetting to return to its rightful owner. Mrs. Garfunkel’s supplying them with relentless support to be together, why? His mother’s been very psyched about them, sure, because she’s probably amused at the thought of actually having her kid dating her best friend’s kid… Not like it’s her fault that they both only have boys… But Mrs. Garfunkel wasn’t happy about them at first, was she? Or perhaps it really doesn’t matter if she’s happy about it or not? Artie’s happy with him, isn’t he? Maybe that’s what matters, and she knows that, too? He probably should give her a visit, just to thank her and give her updates or something, maybe a pecan pie or blueberry muffin…

Get Art to talk with his father, that’s probably gonna ease her mind. Paul wonders if he’s up for another beating.

Art pours the tea to the cups then offers one to Paul. He prods at his own tea cup, his face filled with thoughts. “If I recall correctly, you also loved me the last time you’re back together with her. What changed?”

Paul shrugs. “I grow up.”

“‘Up’, huh? You’re really using that word?”

Paul laughs and hits Artie with his book.

Art takes a sip of his tea, half of it was already spilled to the carpet when Paul attacked. He frowns and looks up to think as he goes. Paul, on his side, is slurping his drink. His mother would’ve smacked him for that, Art thinks to himself. Then he looks at Paul’s open notebook, and that bitterness returns to his tongue when he mutters, “But you’re writing songs for her.”

Paul lifts an eyebrow at Art, then follows to where his gaze falls. He didn’t notice that Art had been studying what he’d come up with so far, and now he feels a little self-conscious about it. Not all, Paul quietly protests. But, ultimately, it’s true. So far, the notebook had been filled with his story with Carrie. For the first time, Art becomes more of a ghost that haunts the relationship than the relationship in question. Paul shrugs again, not really sure if he can do anything to make this situation sound better. “I do love her, Artie.”

“I know,” he nods. “And that’s present tense.”

“Well, because I still do. I also never use past tense to talk about you. It’s the same with her. Look,” Paul quickly adds before Art gets too worked up, and he laughs at that a bit, “I love Carrie. Probably as much as I love you. But I can’t be with her. I just can’t. With you, I can bear being without her, while with her, I can’t bear being without you. So that’s pretty easy deduction going on there.”

“You’re oversimplifying.”

“I am,” Paul agrees. “Because it’s complex and I know you understand without me having to explain.”

Art holds a stare at him for a while, then finally relents. He drops his head backwards, then moves it sideways to perch on Paul’s shoulder with a sigh and a, “That’s true.” Paul presses his palm on the side of Art’s head and pushes it until Art’s temple reaches his lips. Art takes a deep breath to fill his lungs with the scent of Paul’s cologne. He smells like an artificial sea. So big and so relentless, so full of life and so marred. He wants to keep a piece of that ocean. “So what does it mean?”

“It means, I’m gonna do whatever it takes to stay together with you,” he replies. “Whatever future scenario I’m coming up with, it’s not gonna be for _your_ happiness or _my_ happiness. It’s gonna be for us to stay together, however way possible. Because we can’t really be happy, Artie. We can’t ever really be happy unless we’re together.”

He doesn’t need to keep it. He lives in that ocean. He’s half of that ocean. Art opens his eyes and mumbles, “So this is it?”

Paul nods. “This is it.”

Art looks up to find Paul’s eyes, looking to find doubts, or lies, or uncertainty. But it’s too dark to see. And that’s comforting, because he knows he could always find Paul in the dark. Art moves himself deeper into Paul, clinging on his crumbs-invested shirt, hiding further into the darkness. “You’re choosing me?”

“You’re not a choice, Artie,” Paul scoffs. “You’re a pre-set destination I refused to go to because I don’t like being told what to do.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you.” Art frowns and laughs. “But _who_ told you to like me?”

“You?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you do. With your whiny noise and pouty mouth and funny hair. You look like a cry for help.”

“Wow, really? I look like a cry for help, really?”

Paul giggles and pushes Art’s head and messes with his hair, and Art retaliates by slapping Paul’s hands repeatedly, like they did as kids when they’re fighting, but this time with much less anger. Paul stops to think how much more from their childhood they had brought with them here. Artie used to sing softly to himself as he walked home; he still does that and Paul could hear it every morning when Art returns from one of his daybreak excursions. Paul used to climb Art’s bedroom window; he doesn’t do that anymore, because they're either living in tall apartments, or together. But this—touching and very subtly (and good-naturedly) getting into each other’s nerves—had been the shape of their relationship from the beginning. It’s sweet, he thinks, that it follows them. He pulls Art to return to his chest and sighs blissfully. Art is here. Much taller than Paul, but somehow seems a lot smaller, more fragile, more precious; like Art that he knew when he was a child. It's easy to remember that first attraction—with the boy, with the voice, on that stage, in that crowded room, in an event that Paul hated so much, where he first discovered the one thing he'd love for the rest of his life—because it's still there; unchanged, eternal. Art lives outside reality.

Art’s probably thinking of pretty similar things. The past, and how it perseveres into the present, and whether it’s gonna last through the future. And, perhaps, that there’s a future. He knows that this isn’t the first time that Paul promised that. He also knows that each time this promise was made, there’s never any intention to break it. So every time this promise was made, Art believed that it's gonna be the last of these promises and the promise that was to be made. Art believes strongly, almost blindly. He feels emotions so intensely and he’s never afraid to swim through it. Paul fears his emotions—but not Art. He is, in his own way, so much stronger.

“Paul?” he calls—his voice was small, breaking, barely a whimper. Paul nods to reply. Art swallows hard, pushing back the bursting of his tears. “Do you remember when you were about to marry Peggy, and you came to my place and we, uh, cried?” Art clears his throat to rid of his discomfort, but it only makes him more nervous. “You were kinda upset because I said something…”

“You said you loved me first.” Art was slightly startled at the reply. He found Paul with a lifted eyebrow, nodding subtly. “I remember. And if I don’t feel bad enough about rejecting you at first…”

“Paul, no. I, uh, I didn’t mean to hold it against you. I’m…” He smiles and shakes his head. “God, no. I was never upset because of that. No, Paul, just… I’ve been thinking about what I said. And it’s true, but… but it’s not bad, you know?”

“God, Artie! Just get over with it and use real words!”

Art laughs. “I found a poetry I _might_ wanna read you,” he said. “I mean, we used to do it, didn’t we? Reading poetries? When we’re staying away from people in that rented cabin? I thought,” Art withdraws a little— _very_ Art, “it’s a good time to revive that routine, don’t you think?”

“A _poetry?_ ” Paul straightens his back, releasing Art from him, then giggles. “Alright, just like the old time. Go on.”

Art slides away to fetch his book, but doesn't leave before shooting a nervous glare at Paul, which is his old-age signal that he needs encouragement. Paul gives one in form of a shooing hand-wave, and there goes he. Paul watches him as he puts distance between them, then closes it again. Art walks in such a way that no one else in the world does. The way his eyes look below him and everywhere at the same time, it’s mesmerising. Sometimes Paul would remember that those eyes are looking down out of habit, in search for him, expecting him to be there. When he remembers that, he’d think that that’s where he should’ve been—and now that he remembers it, he thinks that that’s where he’s gonna be from now on, and forever. But Art sits in less natural way—like he’s not meant to find comfort. Perhaps that’s just what he likes, discomfort. So when he _does_ find comfort—the way he later does—he can find greater satisfaction in it. Art’s very, very stupid, it’s absolutely endearing.

He presses his back to the sofa and folds his legs, then begins reading. Paul doesn’t really listen, but he observes the movements of Art's lips, reading the poetry out of that dance. “ _I loved you first_ ,” it began, “ _but afterwards your love, outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song_.”

Paul smiles at him, although Art doesn’t see it. Paul knows the poetry that’s being read, and it’s the sweetest thing to have that one read for their relationship. Paul wants to stop Art right there with a lot of little kisses. He wants to hear him reciting poetry all day with that voice of his that Paul loves so much. He wants Art to come closer and let him touch his hair, his face, his arms, his neck. He wants Art to stay there, unmoving, still and perfect, within his gaze. He wants everything Art has to offer. He wants nothing. He wants to keep feeling the feeling of being pulled and shredded by all of these desires for Art.

But Paul waits. He's good with waiting, even when it's not always apparent. He waits until Art reads through the piece of poetry, then he waits a little more until Art lifts his face to look at Paul expectantly, waiting for reaction. Paul smiles again, then reaches out to take Art’s hand in his. He gives the long fingers a gentle squeeze, and says, very tenderly, “You are so gay.”

> **II. CARRIE**

Paul sets off to meet Carrie sometimes later. They dined in funny diner with a lot of bright reds and sunny yellows, bright white lamps, and drawings on the walls. The foods are questionable, the waiters are confused and wheeled... but there, at the end of the room, is a jukebox that plays songs from Paul’s boyhood, and he’s thinking of how fun it’d be to go back here with Art and fight about which Everly’s song is the best. Just like the old time. And, by the way, there's no such thing as Everly's best song—they're all the best.

“Alright there, Shorty, no thinking about the marshmallow-headed muppet of yours when you’re seeing the almost-mother of your child.” Carrie grins and waves her fork at Paul. “That’s just rude.”

Paul snaps out of his reverie, raises his eyebrows at the grinning Carrie, and laughs. He shakes his head, amused. “Every single word in that sentence hurts. And I mean, _really_ hurts.”

Carrie bows towards a plate of a greasy burger, her brown hair nearly got soaked in the pooling oil and sauce. Paul catches the lock for her, with his fork. That's just good manner. Carrie laughs at that and thanks Paul for saving her hair. Her reply was: “That’s what I do best. You see, you have that faraway look when you’re thinking about him, it’s _so_ annoying. So, anyway,” she said, returning her attention to the pile of suspicious salad, “you’ve made up your mind, huh? You’re really gonna be with him?”

He shrugs. “As I said on the phone,” he said. Carrie nods and fiddles more with her food for a while. Paul watches her face carefully, trying to see if there’s anything he can get out of it before the thought is spoken. “Carrie,” he eventually said, “why did you ask to see me?”

“Oh. To see if anything happened within the time of the phone call and now that might get you to change your mind about things. You know… Angry mob, or something like that.” She laughs and shakes her head. “I don’t know, Paul. I guess I just really like being with you. Don’t get me wrong, I hate your guts.” She stops to grin at Paul’s laughter. “But I love you.”

“Carrie…”

“And you’re driving me mad. What’s up with that? Get yourself together, Simon. Choose one. Make me fall in love, or make me wanna kill you. You can't have both. And your clothes, oh my God. I’m gonna get Lorne to arrange a fashion intervention. I mean it. Now get that T-shirt into meat grinder in that greasy kitchen and come home with proper one.”

“Hey, respect your elder.”

She cracks up, shaking her head and stabbing her food. Then for a while, they just stay quiet, letting the sounds around them to fill the emerging silence as their laughter dies down. In its wake, Carrie smiles and pokes at her straw. It’s swirly and angrily bright pink, it scares Paul a little. “If in any part of your future, you’re in need of me,” she said, her eyes flit towards Paul and stay there as she nods, “give me a call. I would understand the situation. It’s alright if he’s where you wanna belong. I just wanna spend some time with you, that’s all.”

“Carrie,” Paul frowns, “you shouldn’t do that.”

“Oh, it’s no problem at all. I’m not gonna hop on board when I’ve found someone or something I like better. It’s just,” she shrugs, “if you need me while I still need you, I’ll be there. I do like to help my friends. I'd do anything for them. And we're friends. We're friends who are in love with each other. Some people can love each other and not be together. You and I can be one of those people. You and I _are_ one of those people.

“But the two of you,” she continues, perching her chin on top of her interlaced fingers, “can’t not be, can you?”

Paul shakes his head.

“ _Now_ you’re being honest. God. Won’t even cushion the blow, huh?” Carrie kicks Paul below the table, the two of them giggling. “See, if you need a cover-up or anything, I have nothing better to do. Well, actually, I _do_ have movies and books and plays and being famous and everything, but I’d enjoy that. You know, it’s like an improv practice.”

Paul frowns again. “What, you wanna be my pretend girlfriend?”

“When needed. And when I have time. I don’t mind. It’s like a game, and we’re playing with the whole world.”

He laughs and shakes his head. ‘I understand’. Art and Carrie have nearly no similarity, but this, they share. Kindness, perhaps. Understanding. No—tolerance, for Paul’s errors. Maybe that’s what he does right all this time: finding people who’d tolerate him. Art is pretty stupid; he's never been able to do that. Except for Sandy, perhaps, but that’s just luck. And Paul. No, Paul found him. So, just Sandy. Stupid Art. Stupid Art and his Master's degree.

“So,” Carrie breaks the silence again. She doesn’t wait until she finishes the munching of her burger to continue. “What are you gonna do now? Where’s he, in your apartment? How about Penny, did she know? Did you ever tell Art that I know?”

“Um,” Paul begins to stab his own food. “No, he’s in my house in Montauk. No, Penny doesn’t know yet. No, I haven’t told Art about you…”

“Huh.” She leans back and idly bites on her empty fork. “First of all, if you want me to cover up for you two, you might wanna tell him so he wouldn’t think that you’re jackassing him again. Second of all, get Garfunkel to stop shitting around with my best friend if he’s gonna seriously get together with you. And last but not least, you skipped one question. What’s the answer? What are you gonna do now?”

Paul smiles. He finishes chewing and grins. “I’ll do that someday, I’ll do _that_ soon, and regarding the skipped question,” he takes a sip from his glass before proceeding, “I’m gonna go to see his father.”

Carrie frowns. “Didn’t he beat you up?”

Paul shrugs. “One punch. Can bear another one.” Paul taps his fingernail against his glass of water, pondering. “And I’m not doing this for him, really. I just thought… this ought to make his mother sad, her son and her husband drifting apart like that. Sure, it happens, even in a close-knitted family. But Mrs. Garfunkel, she’s gonna be so much happier when they’ve made up.” He sighs. “Besides, if _I_ were his father, I would’ve wanted that. I’d just need an opening to apologise, or at least to have a conversation and reach a certain level of understanding or something, or just to clear the air. Artie was never the closest to his father because he was away a lot, but he still loves his father. That guy gave him his first recorder; that was _big._ ”

“Oh.” Carrie clasps her hands together and smiles gently. “You really do love him.”

Paul doesn’t reply, but he likes that she smiles.

> **III. LORNE**

On a Tuesday, Lorne Michaels, in his apartment, is enjoying a relatively quiet night. Enjoying is probably not the best word though, because he’d been antsy for the last few weeks because Paul hasn’t been home. Rumour has it, he’s returned South Africa and is currently caving himself in his Montauk house—presumably with a certain delicate flower whose hair is gold and whose cheeks are pink. Susan told him that Paul had paid a visit or two—he even dropped a souvenir that was a bottle of local wine—but Lorne was never there because of this work or that. He _could_ make a call, perhaps. He doesn’t wanna disturb the two lovebirds, though. But perhaps they miss him now? That’s it. He’s gonna leave a message at exactly 3 in the morning, because it's about to be Wednesday and he can sing them to sleep with their own song, because he’s a lovely guy.

He’s about to put on the record to make sure that he’s gonna get all the melodies right when there’s a knock on his kitchen door. Lorne gasps and squeals and places the precious record on its throne where it belongs, then dashes across the hall to get to the sound of the banging. He carefully presses his palms and face to the white door. “Passcode, please?”

“I fucking wish I was a Kellogg’s cornflake because therefore I wouldn’t have to suffer through knowing you.”

“But what if I’m _also_ a Kellogg’s cornflake and we’re in the same box together? Side by side, even? You're Cornpaul, and I’m Cornflorne.”

“Just fucking open the door.”

Lorne does, with a grin. He shoves all the latches and turns the key and swings the door open to find the tiny silhouette that belongs to his long-lost pal. Paul, at sight, suddenly pulls Lorne into a hug that lasted for several seconds longer than normal. Lorne tenses up from confusion, but he soon smiles and whispers, “Artie is Cornflower because he’s a little flower.” Paul kicks him.

After several rubs on his shin, Lorne perks up again, slightly bouncing until Paul pulls down on his shirt to stop him. He said, “So, where have you been? You’ve been with him? Have you seen him? You’ve seen him, right? Did you grow up? No, you didn't. Do you want milk? For healthy bones and healthy teeth and to eat cornflakes with?”

Paul groans, suddenly remembering why he didn't visit Lorne earlier. "God, stop talking. You _seriously_ could just be normal and stop with the first four questions. Why? Why did you have to continue?" Paul exhales exhaustedly. “Yes, I’ve seen him. We’re staying at my place in Montauk, didn’t Susan tell you that?”

“She did,” Lorne nods. “But you haven’t been seen in a while. I was about to leave you a message. Can I still leave you two a message? I was planning to serenade you with your own song. Not Kellogg’s cornflake, I swear. Oh, by the way, I saw that video you made with those guys, We Are the World? You looked extra small, it's like you shrunk. Whose idea was it to put you next to Kenny Rogers? And, by the way, I personally think it’s odd to see you singing without the Cornflower. Oh, you know what? _Cauli_ flower. Because of the hair.”

“Don’t leave us any message, you freakshow.” Paul gives Lorne another kick, then cocks his head to invite Lorne to his apartment. The latter follows him giddily, like a dog whose owner had been on a long vacation. It's quite apparent that Paul hasn't seen his house in a while, because he's a little limping, slightly disoriented. But Lorne waits eagerly to follow his trails. Paul fills him in with a brief history of what he'd been doing since he last left New York, and Lorne listens to everything until Paul pauses a little. “I went to Artie’s house today,” he said, when they reach the kitchen. He tiptoes to open his cabinet.

“Across the park?” asked Lorne.

Paul shakes his head. “His old house. I met his father.”

“Whoa.” Lorne gasps. “You’re not dead?”

Paul shrugs. “Apparently. It was scary, though.”

Lorne frowns. “But what did you do? Why would you wanna go back and see the guy who punched the hell out of you?”

Paul opens his mouth, then smiles. Something's very odd with that smile, and Lorne soon realised that it's weird because he'd never seen that kind of smile on Paul before. A happy smile—a very, _very_ happy smile. Perhaps like the one he had when he first found out that the apartment next to Paul was up for sale. Paul suddenly strides in and jumps to hug Lorne again. Lorne’s eyes widen in surprise. _Two_ hugs. Two _long_ hugs. Is something wrong? Or is something finally... He carefully pats Paul on the back, and slowly grins. It feels like this is it. Lorne tugs on Paul’s shirt a little, and asks to make sure, “Is this it?”

“Thank you,” Paul’s muffled voice came travelling quietly. It vibrates on the surface of Lorne's shirt, and it's like Lorne listens through his skin. Paul tightens his hug for a brief second before letting it go. He looks up and gives a little pat on Lorne’s chest. “For everything.”

Lorne grips Paul’s arms. “Is this it?” he presses.

And Paul smiles, and nods.

"This is it."


	16. How to Celebrate Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Garfunkels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw that Youtube video on Art and his father singing, and I thought that's a pretty thing ;w;

> **1\. THANKSGIVING DAY**

“Don’t tell me you’re calling again to whine about your boyfriend.”

“I was about to say ‘happy Thanksgiving’, but because you said that, I _am_ gonna whine about my boyfriend.”

“ _Oh,_ so now you two are _actually_ boyfriends?”

“No… Maybe… Shut up!”

There’s a chuckling from the other end of the line. “Happy Thanksgiving, Arthur.”

Art smiles. “Happy Thanksgiving, Sandford.”

***

It’s a blustery and crisp November when Art struck a bargain with his mother that goes: He can make a call to Cambridge if he pays for the phone bill himself. After a little retorting because Art made an impatient “yes, alright, whatever”, he pulled one of his mother’s yellow-cushioned dining chair to the kitchen phone and punched the numbers. As it dialled, Art thought of the day he made that incredibly expensive long-distance call, decades ago, to catch Paul on his little tour and get him home. It felt like forever ago because it was. England, Kathy, their first hit—that was a long time ago.

Sandy sounds like a relief, even though nothing in his life had been suffocating since Paul returned. No, he’d been living in bliss for so long, that he feels overwhelmed by it. He said goodbye to Penny earlier that year—that wasn’t the most pleasant episode. But she, a clever one, had thought it through and had come to the same conclusion: they didn’t find shared future desirable. So although it wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t hostile, either. It’s all very mature, amicable. Art values Penny; she was, after all, the one who helped him most during his parting with Laurie _and_ Paul. And for her, it’s simply an end of a relationship; like a season’s end, it’s bound to happen.

So, that’s one relationship that didn’t end with complete heartache. Art’s been making album and making movie, and he’s happy with his projects. Paul, too, is still working on his own project. He went to Tennessee, then to Louisiana, and pretty much popping here and there and everywhere, trying to get his music right. Art’s not really sure what he’s coming up with, and thinking of how the songs are really about Carrie, he’s not really sure that he’d like to know too much of it. He’s jealous and sulking. Classic Art.

But Paul’s there. When they can find each other, they stay with each other. And everything had been making Art so happy, he had to take a step back and find a space where he doesn’t feel like bursting out of joy because it’s been too much. That’s where Sandy came.

“So,” his former roommate begins, “are you doing Thanksgiving dinner with him? Where is he?”

“Oh, no, no. Paul’s still doing crazy stuff on his own, so I think he ran off to his family house this Thanksgiving. I’m at my home, though. Hey, you were here when you first met Paul.”

“Oh, yes,” Sandy nods. “Lovely luncheon. Now that I think about it, it was as if you’re introducing your boyfriend to me, your father.”

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend!” Art feels heat creeping up his face and he hates it because he knows that Sandy knows that he’s blushing. Art grunts and pounds his fist on his thigh, as if that’s gonna stop it. “And you’re _not_ my father. I was just introducing my new best friend to my old best friend, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. And if I hated your old best friend? What if I _didn’t_ give you my blessing, my son?”

Art whimpers. “I’m gonna be upset for 20 years... It doesn’t matter! You _didn’t_ hate him, he didn’t hate you, so that’s that. Stop talking! I hate that you think I think you’re my Dad! You’re not my Dad!”

“I don’t know, Arthur. You do whine like a little kid every time you talk to me.” Sandy laughs heartily when Art grumbles and—without his control—whines. “Alright, out of seriousness. You’re at home, huh? Are you alright? If I remember correctly, you and your father aren’t on good terms for Paul-related reason.”

“Oh!” Art perks up and nods. “I _was_ going to get to that. Sandy, Paul talked to my Dad.”

“Is he dead?”

“… No.”

***

It was one day before the day that Paul _had_ to (in his own conviction) go to Tennessee. They’d been having such a blissful month together with talking, singing, reading, laying around on the beach, climbing the lighthouse, pranking each other until they’re nearly gone mad. Sometimes Art would notice that Paul had been in such a foul mood—foul, but determined, which meant that he’s confused and probably on the verge of a breakthrough. So one day, Art took away his T.S. Elliot and got him to talk about how things had been going with his album (although he still wasn’t happy that it’s constructed for Carrie and not him).

“Not sure,” Paul replied. He wasn’t. He’d been tweaking same lyrics over and over again and couldn’t get it right, but he wouldn’t let go. He sighed in defeat. “But not like anyone cares. No one cares about me anymore, right? Not since the last two albums. I screwed up. Maybe I just don’t know how to do this anymore.”

Art frowned. “What, writing songs? No, Paul. Your songs are still good _._ They’re _really_ good. Listen to me. There’s no such thing as bad Paul Simon song. Do you remember when you thought you couldn’t do this anymore, then you went to England, then people suddenly realised that those songs _were_ good? This is just it. You just need to rediscover that… that thing that got you to remember that you love what you do and, you know, do it.”

Paul grinned. “Nice pep talk, Marshmallow Peep.”

“Shut up.” Art grinned and robbed the guitar out of Paul’s arms. “See? This is what happens when you decided to switch muse. Just stop writing about other people and write me. You do best when you write me. You _cannot_ separate Art from the artist.”

“Make more stupid jokes like that, and I swear I will choke you tonight.”

“Okay, getting more glimpse into your secret kinks…” Paul opened his mouth to get all flustered, so Art laughed. “Come on. You’re too perfectionist. When’s the last time you sing just to have fun? Come on, sing with me. Uhh…” He began to fiddle on the strings a little. Then he lit up. “Hey, do you remember the first time you heard Peggy Sue?”

Paul grinned. “I guess. I was, what, 12?”

“About.” Art plucked the strings to make the sound of the beginning of that song. He frowned. “Do you remember, not too long after that, you got this massive obsession for Elvis?”

“Oh, yes,” he nodded. “My father was _not_ happy about that. Eddie wasn’t either, but he thought it was funny.”

“Do you remember you said that you did that weird Macon, Georgia thing because of Elvis? You, my friend, was always obsessive and weird, and that’s coming from me.” Art chuckled, then changed the key to play some of Elvis songs that he knew. Paul straightened his back, and a soft smile began to creep on his face. Artie had begun to sing ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight’ in Paul’s guitar, his body rocking gently as he sang. Paul scooted closer, then pressed his temple against Art’s shoulder and joined the melody. Like they did when they were young. Almost.

That was the day that Paul decided that he had to go to Memphis, Tennessee, to pay a tribute to his musical hero. Art didn’t say much about that decision, but he hugged Paul for a very long time, until both of them fell asleep. It’s a normal thing for Paul to be compulsive. It’s a familiar thing for Paul to leave. But this time, it’s not a bad thing. Paul’s not leaving him. Paul’s telling him that he’s gonna go because he’s coming back.

And sometimes later, Art was gone because he had to shoot for movie in Europe, and Paul’s gone insane. He picked up his phone, dialled the number he’d had memorised since he was 11 (8, because Paul had looked it up, but he didn’t tell Artie about this), and waited until someone picked up. It was, of course, the trusty Mrs. Garfunkel, who would do all she could to not give the phone to her husband (which was easy, because all she had to do was to end the call), so Paul pretended to be a fake lad with generic name (not that his name wasn’t perfectly generic). Mr. Garfunkel sounded confused at the phone, perhaps because he never really knew Billy Batson.

“This is Paul. Paul Simon.”

There’s a tiny stop at that end, and Mr. Garfunkel sputtered something Paul couldn’t really hear—most probably an expletive or two. He hissed, “Listen here, young man…”

Paul interrupted. “I’m not a young man anymore, Mr. Garfunkel. I’m older than you were when you married your wife, and I’m older than you were when you had your first child, and even your last.”

He could hear a little sucking of air when Mr. Garfunkel opened his mouth to reply, so Paul quickly moved on. “I’m a father, too.” That shut him up. Paul noticed the breathing slowed down, so he, too, spoke more calmly. “I know how to have a son. And I have a father too, so I know how to have a father. Mr. Garfunkel, I just want to talk, I swear. Not to get you to be happy about any of this, but…”

Paul took a deep breath, steadying his voice. Mr. Garfunkel’s listening to him now. He had to get this right. “I don’t care if you lost Artie,” he whispered, as if Art was somewhere close by, “but I’m not gonna let Artie lose you.”

Paul waited for several seconds even though he knew that the answer wasn’t gonna come. He exhaled and closed the conversation with, “I’m gonna drive down there right now. And since I’m not allowed at your home, and I don’t want Mrs. Garfunkel to freak out about this, so let’s, uh, talk in my car.”

Paul paused a little bit more, expecting. The line was silent, he was almost sure that no one’s listening to him anymore.

“Black, very hot. From Johnny’s.”

Paul smiled. “I’ll get you doughnuts with that.”

Then, a very quiet grumbling. “But don’t tell Rose, I’m not allowed sugar.”

***

Sometimes later, Paul picked up Jack Garfunkel from his house and they drove several blocks away. Paul stared at what used to be his house, trying to figure out whether the current owner had changed anything from his bedroom. Or bathroom. Or basement. Where Art first kissed him, where he first kissed Art, where they first made love and where they first found love. There’s no use to be sentimental, perhaps, but he couldn’t help it. Not when it’s about Art. He still remembered every curve on the melody that the 8-year-old golden-haired boy sang on that stage as he watched from among the crowd, near, probably, the man he’s driving with right now. He still remembered the way Art’s eyes widened, then how his eyebrows frowned, then how his lips curled on the day that they first talked. He couldn’t keep it away.

He drove further away to the park that he and Art used to play in as kids—before they knew each other, separated but still in the same world. Paul would be with Eddie. Art would be with Jerry. They never knew they were together all along. How would it be, Paul wondered, if they’d met earlier? Would they still sing together, would they still fall in love with each other? And would they, had they met so much later? Their lives had been twisted together for so long now, it’s difficult to even imagine life without the other. But, what would that be like? What would life be without falling in love with Art, every day—for his newly-found grey hair, for his incomprehensible adeptness in failing at cooking, for his surprisingly bad walking habit—for his familiar smile that grew sweeter with each repetition, for his soft voice that dazzled him more with each note spoken, for everything he’s trying to be and who he really was?

Or, at least, how would they fall in love again?

“Art didn’t see me much, growing up,” Jack Garfunkel said, after several sips of coffee under lengthy silence. Paul stopped staring at the park and turned his head towards the passenger seat instead. Mr. Garfunkel nodded to himself. “I was a travelling salesman, you see. So I travelled to a lot. Rose handled nearly everything, that’s why the boys are close to her.”

“But Artie…”

“Don’t call him that.”

“But that son of a bitch…”

Jack laughed loudly. Paul grinned with him. Jack gasped and groaned when he accidentally spilled the coffee, but he didn’t finish his laughter immediately. Instead, he waited until he could muster enough calmness to shake his head. “You’re funny, I’ll give you that,” he said.

Paul smiled softly at that. Encouraged by the exchange, he dared himself to speak. “Art loves you,” he said. Jack pursed his lips and stared at Paul, still shaking a little from the laughter. “He took after you more than you probably realised. He loves travelling, too—that’s something he took after you. Mrs. Garfunkel doesn’t seem like a travelling type.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, she isn’t.”

“Art told me how much I’ve been trying to imitate my Dad,” Paul said. “From my choice of career to my preference in life, I followed my father’s path because I love him. He realised that. And the reason he realised that, is because he, too, loves his father, but hasn’t been able to for a very long time.

“Talk to him.” Paul held his gaze until Mr. Garfunkel returned it. “You don’t even have to talk about this. He doesn’t need you to accept this. He just…” He paused. Paul looked at his clenched fist, for a brief moment decided to focus on trying to relax himself out of it. He let his heart beat slower, then looked back to Mr. Garfunkel and nodded encouragingly. “He just needs you.”

“What do I say to him?” Jack closed his eyes and leaned back, pressing himself against the seat. “It’s too late.”

“Then start anew,” Paul insisted. “Talk about anything. Talk about things he never knew. About what you’ve been up to. What _he’s_ been up to. About your kids, about their childhood, about _your_ childhood. About you and how you met Mrs. Garfunkel, about your parents and about your hometown… Anything. There’s literally a world of conversations to have, you just have to be brave enough to pick one and do it.”

Jack turned to look at Paul with a frown. He stared for a little while, then said, “You are very persistent.”

Paul nodded. “My one good quality, Sir.”

He offered a little smile, then turned his face again. Jack took another sip of his coffee, then carefully snuck a bite of the doughnut. Paul followed the suit. They stood in silence and watched as the sun began to nod and children began to leave. Paul was always oblivious of the setting sun, back then, when they were young. Art wasn’t always like that, but he was always afraid of coming home late. So Paul began to pay attention. He watched whether Art’s hair was still shining bright, and if not, then it’s time to go home.

His hair was made of sunshine. It was always true in Paul’s head.

“Rose and I, we used to have fun a lot, you know?” Jack suddenly said. Paul nearly dropped his coffee cup, but he caught his composure before it happened. The senior Garfunkel nodded to himself. “Before the kids were born. Went out dancing, had picnics… Rose made the best apple pie, do you remember that? Pair it with a little red wine, and day’s perfect.” He shook his head tiredly and made a heavy sigh. “That was before everything. Before they were born. Life was great.”

“It’s not now?”

He shrugged. “It’s okay,” he said, nodding. “Got more time invested in kids than myself, and now we have all the time in the world for ourselves and I no longer know what to do.” He brought the coffee cup to his lips, blew on it a couple of times before taking another sip. “What about you?” he said. “You had a kid. You’re away a lot. Don’t you think you missed out on things?”

Paul nodded. “And I _want_ to spend more time with him. Just thinking of how.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking. “I wonder if I can take him along with me on a road trip tomorrow.”

“You’re going?”

“Just for sight-seeing,” he nodded again. “Going to Tennessee.”

“That’s nice. Tennessee’s nice. He’s not coming with you, is he?”

“Oh, no, no. It’s just me. Business thing.”

“And business doesn’t involve Art?”

Paul shook his head. “No. I no longer do that, no. Officially, he and I aren’t on good terms.”

Jack frowned. “You two fighting?”

“Just for the press.” He shrugged. “Probably it’s not a good idea to be in public with him, now that we… have sorted things out. So, anyway, it’s easier to explain why we’re not gonna show up together if we, you know, don’t like each other.”

Mr. Garfunkel held his gaze for a long time, his frown got deeper by second. A thought was dawning on him, it seemed, so Paul didn’t disturb his train of thoughts. And Mr. Garfunkel studied him—carefully, with Art-like intensity—until he felt slightly uncomfortable, before finally said, “And that doesn’t get you mad?”

Paul smiled. “I know worse things.”

He looked away, to the car’s dashboard. Nothing’s written there, but his eyes were focused, it sharpened even under the attack of age. “You should come to our Thanksgiving dinner.”

Paul lifted an eyebrow.

“You can get your family in, too. Rose would love that, having your Mom. They’re like the two of you, you know? Pretty good friends, I mean. And I guess Lou’s not bad, either. Your brother, I like.” He nodded, agreeing to his decision. “Come. We have good food.”

“I remember,” Paul smiled, then shook his head. “No. Thank you, but, no. Not this one. You go spend it with Art. Maybe next one.”

He nodded. “Maybe next one.”

“And you’re not gonna shoot me?”

“Nah, I’m too old for that.” Then, he frowned. “And I’m scared of your mother.”

***

“So he really got your father around?” Sandy whistles. “My God, does that boy love you. Arthur, my friend, you’ve won the boyfriend lottery.”

“He’s _not_ my boyfriend! Stop that!”

“Shut up, you’re boyfriend and boyfriend, and I’ll see what I can do to get you to be husband and husband. No promises, but, you know. Consider it a premature hopeful-wedding gift.”

“Sandy, you’re creeping me out.” Art pauses, then looks down to his lap. “But, yeah, look into that.”

Sandy smiles. “So everything’s good with you? Finally a good year?”

“Art?” Jules calls from the doorway, then mouthed ‘sorry’ when he sees Art on the phone. Art nods to let Jules continue. “Uh, Dad’s ready. You have the recorder?”

Art lifts his old recorder—the one his father gave him to use with Paul—and gives a thumb-up. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Ending the call?” Sandy asks, catching Art’s attention.

“Yeah. I’m gonna sing with my Dad,” he answers, grinning widely. “Sandy, this is a really, really good year.

> **2\. EASTER SUNDAY**

His mother waves her hand from the back porch, a green mitten wrapped around it. He noticed that she’s dropping a hot tin of pie on the railing, and he considers whether he’d leave the beach for that. But he takes a look towards the sea and curls his toes on the sand, pokes on the soft mound with the biggest one and enjoys the grainy texture on his skin. The soles of his feet are all rough and patched from all his walks—pretty much like Paul’s fingers, he thought—but they can still feel them. It’s nice.

“Buying a house straight next to a beach.” He turns his head towards the voice. “You two must be really rich.”

“This is Paul’s house. And, yeah. More Paul than me. It’s all the song-writing he did. He gets all the money they made out of his songs, you know? Oh, and, by the way, he wrote a song about you, did you know that? He said you told him all these stories about your life before you’re married, when you’re still a travelling salesman?”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” he scoffs. “That boy runs his head too wildly.”

Art nods slowly. “That’s what he does.”

Art reaches out to give his father a little squeeze on the shoulder. It’s something that Paul liked to do to him when they’re performing. Or, really, all the time; that man knows no boundaries.

The thought of Paul in distant time puts a smile to his face. But his father eyes him curiously, so he ought to stop. Art turns his head towards the sea again, and they both listen to the sound of calm waves hitting the shore. In the distance, his mother’s laughter rings loudly, dancing around with the voice of her best friend’s high-pitched giggling in the air. Art wonders if Paul and he used to sound like that when they were kids, when they were best friends. Their mothers work it out well—they remain friends and don’t get all confused about affections. Perhaps that’s the benefit of having more than just one friend.

Jack Garfunkel followed his son’s gaze towards the house, where the three people are joking around, waiting for the pie to cool down. Unlike his middle son, Jack first spotted Paul and his guitar. Or perhaps that’s Eddie— _who_ knows the difference?—except Eddie didn’t join the gathering in the first place. “So, what’s this? Easter dinner?”

“Dad, we don’t celebrate Easter. We celebrate finding marshmallow peeps in store, and that’s all there is.” Art grins. “No, he just wants us to meet and… and… talk. It’s the ‘meeting the parents’ sort of thing. Like that time I took you to see Linda’s parents.”

“I understand the concept, Arthur. I _have_ married before.”

Art grins. Then, “Thank you for coming, Dad,” he said, in his low voice that’s almost like a hush. Paul loves that voice. He gets little kisses from Paul whenever he uses that voice. He is _not_ expecting that from his father. “Thank you. You have no idea…” Art stops. He catches his father’s glance, and feels heat stabbing from the back of his eyes. His father, somehow, just decided to put a hand on top of Art’s, and that makes him wanna cry even more. He struggles to compose himself, then he opens his mouth, and lets out a squeaky, “I’m sorry.”

That catches Jack off-guard. He wasn’t expecting an apology. An Art-like dramatic confession of love, very tear-jerking and all that—that’s what he’s bracing himself for. But not an apology, none of that. In his surprise, a droplet of tear snuck out past the bar, poking from the tail of his right eye. Jack frowns so the shiny dot wouldn’t get too recognise.

“Are you?” he asked. His fingers now are gripping on Art’s hand, clenching tightly it almost hurts. “Are you sorry that you… that? That you love him? Because if you are, it’s not too late. I can still drive home and get my gun and end it all.”

Then, his face softens, and his grip relaxes. He eventually lets go of Art, and puts his arm over his son’s shoulder in return. Jack lowers his back and puts his face close to Art, scowling gravely. “Because if you’re sorry, then this is just a long, stupid joke. Are you sorry, Arthur?”

From childhood habit, Art quickly shakes his head at his father’s menacing question. Then he pauses, and casts his gaze downwards, and thinks of whether his refusal to the accusation was true. But this time, being a grown-up, he says it out loud: “Never.” Art swallows nervously, then faces his father with teary nod. “Not once. Not even when he left me. Not even when I lost… when I lost Laurie, because of it. Never, Dad.”

“I’m just sorry,” he continues, choking a little and gasping, “because I couldn’t be what you’d like me to be. I never could. I’m sorry. I’m so… sorry.”

“Arthur, I love you.” His father pushes Art on the back until his face rests on the broad, fleshy shoulder of his father. Gingerly, Art tugs on his shirt, like he used to do to his mother’s when he was a child. He’s well past his 40’s and there he is, a little child in his father’s arms, trying so hard not to sob. His father mutters hoarsely behind him, “I sometimes forgot. I sometimes think you, being alive and safe, is more important than that, so I forgot. But I love you. For who you are. For who you’re trying to be, too, but first and foremost, for who you are. I just forgot, Arthur, I just forgot.”

Art takes a deep breath, hearing its quivers being swallowed by the sound of softly rushing waves. “He never forgets, Dad,” he whispers. Then he hides his face again, but keeps on mumbling. “Even when he’s not with me, he never forgets. And he reminded you, too.”

“I know,” Jack nods. He pushes Art gently, nodding again with stern face. Art always needs a lot of reassurance—his parents are used to giving him it, and here’s Jack, putting the knowledge into practice. He squeezes on Art’s shoulder. “I’m not disappointed in you. You tried so hard to put everything you love away to make me proud, but I am proud of you, Art.

“So there’s no reason to be sorry,” he whispers. “The hardest choice to make is the right one, and this sure feels like the right one. Does it feel like the right one?”

Art smiles a little. “Risking my life every day so I can love him? Yes, Dad. I’ve thought it through.” Then, he pauses and looks down to the sand, now moulded to the shapes of him and his father. The wind will erase it in its wake, taking the traces of their togetherness away from real world. Art wants to cherish it while he can still see it.

“Paul said,” his mouth decided to say, “I’m not a choice.” Art tweaks with his fingers and bows his head deeper, trying to hide his blushing face. He’s not a choice. And Paul’s not his choice. They were designed. One half of a completion; a head and a heart, the earth and its sky, two voices meant to be heard as one. No one gets to choose to be perfection; they just are. And here they are.

“Then stop putting that off for the sake of other people. Idiots like me are everywhere, but aren’t you two the smart ones? Stop apologising for people who are disappointed that you are what you are.”

“You’re my _father,_ ” Art replies. “Of course I care what you think of me.”

“I’m your father, yes.” Jack nods again, the scowl on his forehead gets deeper. It reminds Art a little of whenever Paul scowls, which is a lot of time. Paul laughs a lot, and he blanks out a lot. But when he’s frowning, it doesn’t stop until his face is lost in it. His father is somewhat like that, too. He lowers his voice and speaks carefully to Art, “Listen to me, Arthur. You cannot choose who you were born from, but you _can_ choose your family. You can. You choose who you want to be with you, and no blood can change your decision.

“I was ready to lose you,” he said. Then he puts both of his hands on Art’s shoulders, his lips pursed to hold back his tears. “I’m glad I didn’t.”

And for a long time, on the side of the beach, the father and the son remain, holding on to each other, while the pie in its tin turns cold. Paul comes up to fetch both, but only the father stands to return to the back porch. He looks back towards the sandy beach to find Paul dropping himself to Art’s side. He plays some tunes, then they talk, then they begin to bicker and slap each other. Just like they used to, when they were kids. Just like they’d always been, since they were kids.

Jack smiles to himself and walk away.

> **3\. SEPTEMBER**

“So when it’s October, right? So, when it’s October, do I change the song and sing ‘Happy birth-gay to you’, or…?”

“Lorne, shut the fuck up.”

“Come on!” Lorne flails his arms excitedly. He shouldn’t be let out to public. “It’s the _longest_ time that you two are together since God-knows-when. Nothing seems to be…”

“Hey! Don’t jinx it!”

Lorne scoffs. “Jinx? What are you, a child?” Paul frowns and cringes in disbelief. Lorne laughs. “I’m just saying, it’s been over two years without hitch, and I think you two should be as happy as I am. Or, more, actually. No, I should be happier. See? My meddling with the Squad paid off, right? Now you two _owe_ us for that.”

Paul shrugs, but he smiles. “Fine, we owe you. What do you want? If you mention _any cereal,_ I’m gonna poison you. And not the quick-and-painless kind, the kind that kills you every time you do disgusting things.”

Lorne is about to answer, but the door suddenly bursts open and Art, with dry leaves poking from his hair, shows up at the doorstep. Lorne exclaims, “Hey, it’s the Missus!”

“That. That kinda thing will get you killed.”

Paul stands up to welcome Art, and he turns to smile at Lorne for saying, “I was just trying to say that if you _really_ wanna thank us, you should at least _look_ happier.” Paul gives Art a little peck and helps him with his large bag, while Art removes his clothes and shakes his head to rid of trails of autumn that clings to him on his way in. He smirks and appraises Paul. “He’s got a point. You look like you haven’t slept since January.”

“Har-har, very charming. Shut up. You’ll stress out too if you were releasing an album that might be the end of your career. So,” Paul ignores Lorne’s loud ‘I WILL BUY A MILLION COPIES TO SAVE YOU’ and takes Art to where he can sit, “how’s the family dinner?”

Art raises his eyebrows and doesn’t reply for a while.

***

After he received one of his mother’s weekend calls, Art made a visit to his childhood home. His father fell ill, she said. It’s not that big a deal—could be the heat, could be excitement, could be anything—but Art had just mended fences with his father, so he’s—another classic Art deal—still being very clingy.

“It’s nothing,” his father grunted when he made his first visit. “Rose, what did you say to him? You’re making him all worried!”

His wife frowned, then flatly said, “I said it’s nothing.”

Jack grunted again. “Of course he’s worried if you say it like _that_. You know how he is.”

“Jack, are you _seriously_ saying…”

“Wait, _how I’m like_? How am I like?”

The three Garfunkels grinned at each other, and relaxed. Rose patted Art on the shoulder and announced that she’s gonna get busy in the kitchen, which was her way of saying that she’s gonna let them have a moment. The two men watched her as she left, and Art’s father mumbled something about her making stew for dinner. Art liked her stew. He ate it on the day he told her about Paul. And Jack remembered it. So he fell silent.

He nervously cleared his throat. “So, how are you?”

“Dad, _you’re_ the one who’s sick. That’s my question.”

“You _know_ I’m sick—if that’s what you call this. _I_ don’t know if you are.” He fiddled with his blanket. The knitting was fraying, and Art thought that it’s not gonna get better with his pulling and tugging. “Is everything… Is everything alright?”

Art smiled. His father’s worrying about him. Probably also curious, but mostly, basically, worrying. That’s nice. That’s sweet. It’s not nice to make your father worried, but it’s nice that his father, really, actually, cared. Art gave his father’s hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s been perfect, Dad. Thanks.”

Jack looked at his son’s fingers around his hand. He’s still very thin, Arthur. Thin and tall, like a celery stalk. Easy to break. “That’s good,” he murmured, then moved his other hand to pat those celery-stalk fingers. “You hold hands like your mother.”

An eyebrow wiggled on Art’s head, and he giggled. “I didn’t know that. How do you hold hands like someone else?”

“Just something about it,” he shrugged, chuckling huskily. Art thought of how his voice was getting hoarser these days. It’s the age, he thought. And he thought of the time he went to that old people’s house to capture those voices, then he wondered what it would be like when he’s the one with that sort of voice. He couldn’t really imagine. He’d lived with clear voice all his life. “You took after your mother so, so much. You smile like her. Always use your whole face to smile, just like her.”

His father never really talked about his mother before. Not like this, at least. Not with an air of being entranced. It’s probably the light-headedness; his father was a little sick, after all. Art carefully touched his cheek, checking on his temperature without being too apparent. “And she smells nice,” he remarked, as a distraction.

“She does,” he nodded. “It’s the lavender things of hers.”

“God. Mom and lavenders.”

“She’d been doing that for long as I’d known her,” he chuckled. When the laughter’s over, he nodded and patted Art again, looking lost in thoughts. “Rose. Something about you reminds me of flowers, too.”

“Is it my hair? My friend Lorne said it’s my hair.” He paused. Then, frowned. “I don’t like that.”

Jack scowled for a moment, then scoffed. “This friend of yours, Lorne… Everyone talks about him a lot. Should I also know him? Maybe we can have another one of those family dinners and invite him, too.”

“NO. God, Dad, no. I’d like that family dinner thing, but not with Lorne, no. God, no. Please, no.”

He laughed what Art thought to be a rather weak laughter, so Art, after a while, had his face turned from mortified to worried. His father didn’t see that, though, because he was smiling and looking fondly at their clasping hands. “Let’s do that,” he said, with another little nod. “I’d like that.”

So, a couple of weeks later, the Simons visited their old neighbourhood and shared another lunch with the Garfunkels. It’s nostalgic, mostly for the mothers, quite a lot for the children—in here meant Art, Paul, and Eddie. The fathers commented here and there on things only they knew, like what really happened during that time when the water balloon war ended, or why the trash can behind the abandoned house was painted purple. The children spoke in low tones between themselves, like children usually do when they’re forced to eat with their parents and the friends of their parents.

This was when Jack Garfunkel really noticed that Eddie Simon, the nicer of the two Simon brothers, was there, joking and joining the conversations lightly. He frowned, then looked at Lou Simon, then Belle Simon, then Rose Garfunkel, then his roast. From all four, there’s only one that might not have the answer.

“Simon,” he said, accidentally too loudly, and blushed a little when he realised that Paul’s not the only Simon on the table. “I mean… Ah, that’s fine. So, Eddie. Eddie, you know, too?”

Eddie, a little surprised to receive any attention on such occasion, widened his eyes and nodded curtly. “Yeah, for a while now. Paul told me.”

“And he almost didn’t tell _me,_ ” Belle chimed in. “Like I’m not his mother or anything.”

“Mo-o-om _…_ ”

Rose shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know how you people just think it alright. I tossed and turned in my sleep when _he_ first told me. Belle, how are _you_ so okay with it?”

“Oh, Rose, sweetheart, I was just thinking I get to have more excuse to see my friend this way, then I focused on that. _You_ know how maddening it is to get all cooped-up inside the house all by yourself.”

“Belle, _you_ are the most darling.” Then they prattled on on how much they loved each other. Paul and Art, Eddie thought, might’ve benefited from that, had they done in years earlier. But he’d prefer that they wouldn’t do that _now,_ because that would be nauseating. But years earlier, sure, so they wouldn’t have to tiptoe around their feelings and wreck other people’s lives when they’re denying it.

Jack resorted back to the more thoughtful state. He frowned again, then said, “Art, do you think you’d like to tell your brothers, too?” Art turned his head and tried not to choke on his mashed peas. His father quickly added, “If you think that’s a good idea.”

“The real question is whether _they_ would think that it’s a good idea to know what their brother had done on New Year’s Eve, 1968.”

“EDDIE!”

“I’m sorry!”

“And don’t spoil anything after Chapter 22, sweetheart. I’m still reading it.”

“Mom!”

“What? Your Dad’s waiting for me to finish, too.”

“DAD!”

Lou Simon opened and closed his mouth, then eventually just shrugged nonchalantly. “I’m just curious, alright? Not about what the two of you do, just, you know… Things in general. Like, if it’s different from, you know, the normal sort. Or how you decide, you know, what’s what.”

Eddie shuddered.

Paul threw his hands in the air and grunted exasperatedly. “Mrs. Garfunkel, did _you_ read it?” She shook her head and said something about burning the book after Chapter 8. Paul gestured at her. “See? Normal. That’s what you should’ve done when people shoved this… this sort of information at you. WHY CAN’T YOU BE NORMAL? God, I… I can’t do this, okay? Eddie, pretend to be me while I’m gone.”

Paul dashed out of the dining room and, from the sound of it, exited from the back door. Art tried not to laugh, because it’s supposed to be embarrassing for him, too, but it’s so much worse for Paul and that’s amusing. Eddie, on his side, bleakly stabbed on his cherry tomato, muttering something about killing Lorne. The brothers were _way_ too alike, thought Art.

He quickly finished his lunch and went after Paul. He couldn’t find the latter on the backyard, but he noticed that the windows from his old bedroom were wide open. Art walked towards it in easy strides, and found Paul sitting on the window sill, waiting for him. “Took you long enough,” he commented, at the sight of Art.

Art carefully considered the height of his bedroom windows. No track of dirt—Paul had removed his shoes upon entry, again. Just like the old times. “I don’t know how you always climbed from here, even after your baseball practice and you’re exhausted, you couldn’t even lift a finger,” he remarked. “It’s supposed to be quite a jump for you.”

Paul shrugged. “I liked the challenge,” he said. “And I suppose I was always challenging myself that you’d leave the windows open for me.”

“Won that bet every time, eh?”

“Artie, you’re too nice to leave me standing on your backyard, jumping for locked doors.”

Art smiled. “Artie,” he said.

Paul frowned and scoffed. “Baby, that’s _your_ name.”

“Yeah, I know,” he nodded. Art folded his arms on the window sill and perched his chin on top of it. “I just thought, probably I always liked it because it’s already a sort of a pet name from you.”

Paul grinned. He brushed his hand over Art’s hair, carefully caressing it. “Yeah, probably. Artie is synonymous to ‘baby’, what do you know? No wonder you’re always acting like you just shit in your diaper.”

“Shut up, don’t ruin this.”

Paul laughed. Art tilted his head, allowing Paul to touch his hair more. Paul didn’t refuse. “So,” he said. “You’re thinking about telling your brothers?”

Art nodded. “I think Dad wants the whole family behind me,” he said. “He thought, if he could be okay with it, _they_ should be okay with it, too.”

“And if they’re not, I can get them coffee and desserts to get them around?”

Art laughed. “That, too. By the way, you can get away with anything with Jerry, but Jules, specifically get that extra strong flat white from Angela’s, and their brownies. He’ll at least shut up and listen.”

Then, Art tugged on Paul’s shirt. He looked at the way he curled his fingers, how much the gesture he’d offered Paul was like the one he sent to his mother and father as a child. Paul made him feel protected, and destroyed, and nurtured, and rejected, then accepted, and blessed, and loved, so unconditionally, for no other reason than love itself. There’s no reason to believe that he belonged someplace else.

“Come on,” he said, his words coming out as half a whisper because he was suddenly afraid—of how perfect this moment felt, this day was. Here they were, at the beginning, very much completed. “My parents want us to sing on the piano.”

And Paul leaned forward to kiss Art on the lips, then climbed back out. Art stayed behind for several seconds longer to close the windows to his bedroom door.

He left them ajar.

***

The beginning of autumn is the time of year that usually marks the ending of bad things and the beginning of the good. Summers in the years before had always been the worst season of their lives—Paul’s friend’s death, Laurie’s death, Paul’s marriage, and all that… But when autumn begins, they’d usually have their heartaches processed and would already be moving on with their lives, and they’re mostly just waiting for the wheel to roll and give them something good. This year’s summer was a bliss. Paul’s here, his father was there, too, and it felt like the world is finally making way for happiness for the two of them.

But still, the wheel turns.

“Paul,” Art whispers, “my father died.”


	17. How They Shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're sailing right behind.

Paul does what Art usually does.

He wakes up early and gets himself a glass of orange juice. He reads the paper and folds it neatly. He prepares his clothes before he goes to the shower, then goes out to pick up flowers from the store. Lavenders and roses. The body of his wife.

Art’s already awake and showered when Paul’s back home, sitting on the bed with his signature slumped shoulders, staring blankly at the lower part of the walls, his hair half wet and his clothes undone. Paul sighs mournfully and, wordlessly, begins to dress Art. He buttons the shirt, tucks it in, makes it neat. He loops the tie and fits the suit, finds the socks and slips in the shoes, then dusts the shoulders and lifts the man. Paul holds him closely, then, very tenderly, whispers, “Let’s go.”

He locks the door and carries the key. Then Paul does what Art usually does: he drives the car with care, and he worries.

***

That weekend was supposed to be the day for the rest of the Garfunkel boys to join the circle of knowing. They had planned the whole dinner—at home, so everyone can cool down in case they’re having difficult time accepting the news and no one would be around to eavesdrop; no partners so it’s kept within the family; childhood-favourites only so there's fudge brownies and giant meatballs. Art wore his comfortable shoes and the shirt that his mother liked. He brought flowers and wine. He wanted to see his brothers. Paul didn’t throw a fit because Art left him when he’s freaking out about the newly-released album and Lorne was more than happy to contain the nervous jitters. They kissed before he left. He left with skipping steps. Paul told him to stop skipping.

In the afternoon, Jack went to take a pre-dinner nap and never woke up.

Art has an odd way to grieve, Paul thinks. He processes sad news like an abstract idea and in his head, it’s translated into a cloud of beautiful metaphors that he’d stare at, study, before he eventually realises that it’s been eating him alive and he’s just letting it gnaw away. He’d morph himself into an aloof character that’s not thinking in the way that earthlings do, so he can get out of mortal sadness and reduce it to simple confusions. That happened with Laurie, and that’s why he couldn’t cry. That happened with Paul, but for that one he couldn’t perfectly cope and broke down anyway.

He walked out of the family hug and then the hospital and returned to Paul for no reason at all, that day. Paul removed Lorne out of his house, then held him and cried until he, too, began to cry. Paul called his mother to notify her, and she left to see her best friend to notify _her_ that her son’s gonna return soon. And while all that happened, Paul took Artie to the bathroom, let him sit in the tub and cry while he bathed him, then took him back to the hospital to deal with everything. His Mom, though, had arranged most of it with puffy-eyed Jules. Jules. Growing up, Paul had never seen him cry.

Paul mildly dreads today. No one knows what to do when your loved one lost their loved one. He thinks of Mrs. Garfunkel who’d been there for them, always ready with love and care—what can he do to ease today for her? He thinks of Jules, who’d sometimes side with him against Art when they’re fighting, then of Jerry, who’d get Art out of his bedroom when he made formal visits through the front door—they are, in a way, his childhood friends, too. What can he do for the family who’d given him everything he’d ever wanted?

Paul steals a glance at Art and tries his best not to leave the steering wheel to give him a hug. He sighs and thinks that this time, at least, he’s there, with Art, through everything.

And he thinks he’ll always be there.

***

“I don’t think I’d tell them after all.”

Art’s smoking on his backyard. He watches as people inside the house, all dressed in black, wander around as if they’re supposed to be there. They don’t. His father does.

“Jules and Jerry.” Art looks at Paul, who’s sitting on the bench. They didn’t usually use that bench when they were kids. Why would they, if everything they did could be done in Art’s bedroom, or away from that house? Art lets out a puff of smoke. “I don’t like to take chances. My family needs to be whole.”

Paul opens his mouth to speak, but Art looks at him in a way that nearly stops his heart. So Paul retreats, and observes the blue-green eyes that look so much like a river and the greens it’s reflecting, and how it’s so deep and so strong. Paul narrows his eyes because Art’s hair is reflecting the sunlight, but he doesn’t budge. For the moment, he returns to his youth and this is his schoolyard, and the boy he finally dared to speak to had just tugged on his shirt, asking him to elaborate his odd introduction. He looks like a giant streetlamp—Paul remembers his young self thought that of Art. He was wrong. That’s a miniature sun. Art is where the water meets the sky.

“I met someone last January.”

Paul lifts an eyebrow.

Art clears his throat, nodding. “She’s a fan.”

“I remember that,” Paul nods. “You never told me why.”

“I didn’t know why. Now I do.” Art looks at Paul again. “You’re the one who suggested it. She wouldn’t tell anyone.”

It took him a while to understand. And when he understands, it feels like he'd understood since those words were first uttered. His head's refusing it so, still, Paul widens his eyes, taken aback. “Artie,” he whispers, standing up and pulling gently on Art’s arm. “You’re not being serious, are you?”

“She won’t tell. I promise. She won’t. She’d understand. She's a fan. She really likes us. She's gonna understand, I promise.” Art takes a deep breath. From the sharpness of it, Paul realised that he’s on the verge of crying, so he relaxes the grip on Art’s arm. Noticing that, Art exhales more calmly. He whispers, “I will always be yours, Paul. I just really need my family with me. I can’t lose any one of them now, or ever. Not after what happened with my Dad. I don’t want that to repeat again. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“Artie…”

“I know you got him back for me,” he cuts in. “But it’s happened. I can’t deal with anymore of that, Paul. I’m so sorry.”

Paul doesn’t say anything. He can’t. So he lets go of Art and slumps back to his seat. Art draws his shaking fingers back to his lips, refills his lungs with what Paul had repeatedly told him would destroy his voice. Why is he defying that one plea so profusely, since he loves his voice so much, too? Perhaps he’s trying to challenge whether Paul would still love him even without his voice. After all these years, why does he even want a reassurance still? His parents know that that’s just classic Artie. Or a half of it is just his childish habit on trying to annoy Paul. Paul knows it too; both of it, so perfectly. That’s just the game they play. Both of them know it entertains no one, yet still they play it. Such strange souls, Simon & Garfunkel.

“So we’re returning to the cage?” Paul says. He lifts his face and Art catches his bitter smile before it falls. “No one gets in, no one gets out. We’re safe, but we suffer. Is that it?”

“You’re in the cage with me,” Art mutters.

Paul nods slowly. “That’s true.”

“She’s gonna understand. This is not a goodbye, Paul.”

“How do you know she’d understand?”

“I just do.”

Art watches Paul with a tilted head, free to gander now that Paul had removed his eyes to glare at the dying grass. “Paul, you made my father love me again before he’s gone. I can never repay you for that. And now I’m doing this, and it’s like I don’t just not repay you, I take even more from you.”

Paul shakes his head. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t apologise, Artie. Not for things that aren’t your fault, not for things that aren’t even wrong to begin with. And your father never stopped loving you. He just took himself away from you. He didn’t stop loving you. Never. I didn't get him to love you again. No one can make anyone love anyone. They just love. You can’t make that.”

Art smiles. “You sound like my Dad. He said that to me, too, last April.”

Paul laughs and nods a little. “Sure. Suddenly the whole Daddy thing makes sense.”

“ _Now_ you’re talking about it? God, Paul. It’s like you deliberately pick all the wrong times to talk about things that could’ve sounded really fun if talked about in other times, _and_ make it sound gross.”

“Maybe because it _is_ gross. Shut up. Anyway,” Paul grins. He pats the seat next to him and waits until Art settles on it. Then he looks down again, to the short distance between them, and speaks very, very softly. “Artie, I love you. I’ve said that so many times, it’s beginning to sound annoying now… but I do. You made a sound out of silence, and it becomes a song, and all I want is to write it down for you to sing it. You should... Artie, you should’ve been the one singing every song in the world.”

Art smiles again, his eyes soften. “That’s what you said to me that night after the Bandstand.”

“I meant it then, and I mean it now,” Paul nods. “I want to give you all the songs in the world, and if you can’t sing it, I’ll sing it for you. So don’t apologise. I understand. I’ll capture the songs and sing it for you. That's all I'll ever do from now on, until my voice gives up. And even then, I still wouldn't give up on you. Don't apologise. Don't apologise ever again.”

“Paul…”

He’s biting back tears, and Paul’s fighting it. That’s what they do; all the time, that’s all they do. They kick and scream and still they’re losing and still they remain. Art can hear Paul inhales the cold autumnal air, its beautiful crisp and faint traces of warmth are now lodged within his small body.

Paul sighs and takes a sip of the whole world that’s currently contained in the Garfunkel house. The people moving aimlessly with drinks in their hands look like a vignette of life he’s bound to live through—he’s gonna live through it with and without Art at the same time, from now on. A beautiful paradox, Arthur. So beautiful.

“So, what?”

Paul smiles at Art with a question on his face. Then he processed the question—the one Art just posed—and shrugs. He stands up, turns his body around to shield Art from the black-tinted universe within those four walls, and commands, “Tell me again that this isn’t goodbye.”

Art shakes his head. “This isn’t goodbye,” he assures. “I’m yours. Always. We will love from afar, and sometimes we’ll come across one another again, then we will part again, then get together again. Just like we always do. But this time, it’s different because we know what we’re doing, and we’re not hurting anyone. I will never stop walking towards you. We won't ever stop this wandering.”

"Very Jewish of you, Garfunkel." Art laughs a little. Paul smiles weakly, then he nods. “That sounds good to me. Not _ideal._ But good enough.” He shrugs. “I guess I should’ve gotten used to it by now, eh? With good enough?”

Paul stares as Art’s shoulders slump miserably under the shade of his hair. He first fell in love with that voice before he fell in love with that man. It was ignited by something so pure and so divine, then it flared when the wheel drove them to the darkest of place. That was when Paul realised that that’s what this had always been: something that holds him gently when his body’s afloat in bliss, and strongly when he’s about to break. Paul is sure that he’s the only person in the world who knows how to love an angel, and be loved by one.

“Someday, somewhere, we will be received,” he whispers. His heart’s beating so loudly, it’s almost as if it’s writing a happy beat of a sad song. His body’s turned into instruments when he met the boy with the voice. They're meant to become a song. Everyone's trying to change the tunes. “If it’s not today and not here, in other day, other place, we will.”

Art blinks and a drop of tear falls from the tip of his nose. “Graceland.”

“Where the music is,” Paul agrees. He notices a small smile forming on Art’s lips, and it invites his to arch the same way. Paul takes another deep breath, relaxing even though the power had left his body. He’s done fighting now. They've already found glory.

Paul offers his hand. “Come on, then.”

Art giggles. “Where are we going?”

“Where we belong,” he said. He can feel Art’s fingers brushing the lines on his palm, reading it, predicting it, living with it. The coldness from each tip presses on until they meet the warmth of Paul’s hand, and everything rushes back as if each one happened just moments ago: the talent show, the Good & Plenty, Alice in Wonderland, the first time he used the name ‘Artie’, the first practice with the now-lost names of their friends—the first time Artie came to his house was the first time they held hands, does Art remember that? The first song, the bar mitzvahs, their trips to the city as hopeful teenagers in the bus with all the records, the poetries and the guitar, the audition, Hey Schoolgirl, the night of the Bandstand…

Paul blinks to find himself back to the last days of his college where the sound of the absence of Art rang loudly in his head, the Wednesdays, the summers, the chair and the bath tub, the graduation party and the hotel room… Then he returns to England and Kathy and the burning longing for the boy he’d always loved, all the letters and expensive phone calls whenever he could afford it, all the songs and the train stations, the first hit and the separation and the return; and the Peggy and the Mardi Gras and the first time they used the word ‘love’ and how it meant truer with every use, the marriage that felt like death—Peggy, Harper, Linda—Laurie, then Shelley, and Carrie, and Penny, and everyone in between. All the names and all the events are jumbled and rushing and running like Lorne on every first day of their album release. The Guide, the Squad, the Garfunkels and the Simons… How old their love had grown. How the memories shine. And it’s all there, sparked into reality from just a touch of a hand. Paul swallows it all into his grip as he holds on to the only place he knows they belong:

“To each other.”


End file.
